


Face The Past

by AltraViolet



Series: Face The Light [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Blood, First Aid, Food, Horror, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical stuff, Omega Spreem, Quickmix, Romance, gore typical of canon, mention of past non-con, minor Camien OCs, some dead bodies, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-05-28 17:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 146,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15054602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltraViolet/pseuds/AltraViolet
Summary: Sequel to “Face The Light.” Following his injury, Mirage travels back to Cybertron with the Protectobots to get medical assistance. Flatline has come highly recommended to him for his treatment, but Mirage has reservations about working with the ex-Con... IDW Gen 1 AU.Flatline named his price..:That's more than a full body overhaul!:. comm'd Mirage. .:Two, even! You price-gouging monster!:.“Ah, ah, please. I was a monster in the past, but no longer.” Flatline crossed his finger over his spark. “Medic's honor and all that.”.:I can't afford that price. I don't have nearly enough with me here on Cybertron, and even if I emptied my off-world accounts and sold the bar, I still couldn't afford it:.“Well, then,” said Flatline. He stood, pushed his shoulders back, and raised himself to his full height. He looked down at the bright, yellow eyes. “Perhaps we could make some kind of deal.”





	1. The Body Shop

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the sequel to “Face The Light.” Please read that fic first or this one won't make any sense. It's set on the Lost Light and has Nautica! 0u0b
> 
> This fic is written to blend with canon details as much as possible, but will eventually diverge as I don't know the entirety of IDW's history. My approach for TF stories is to start with/center around their biology, hence the tag warnings for medical-related things. 
> 
> Thanks so much for checking this out! Mirage and Flatline are some of my favorite characters. I'm aiming to give them more backstory, and very much hoping to please any other fans of theirs :)
> 
> .:comm speak:.

Two bots pushed through the afternoon bustle on the streets of Iacon, heading for the noisy overlap where the industrial complex met the lower class residential area. They were shinier than the locals- neither coated with the fine dust of Cybertron, nor blending in with the harried colonists. They walked like mechs who were accustomed to the lower gravity of space travel. They didn't speak, though the trace of a nod, a head tilt, or a flick of the wrist suggested private communication via comm link.

They refused service vendors and religious pamphlets on the street corners. Finally, they stopped outside a two story building advertising **FLATLINE'S BODY SHOP**. The logo intertwined a sparkbeat pattern with the transgalactically understood red cross symbol for medical care. The shop sat between a grimy fast food place, **SPREEM'S BURGERS** , and **T E MET LPO HE ARY** , from whose chimneys belched torrents of smoke. The latter's sign was barely legible. The building damage suggested half the letters had been lost to explosions originating from inside.

Mirage rested the box he had been carrying against his hip. .:Burgers? Really?:. 

First Aid squinted at the neon logo. .:Isn't that an Earth thing?:.

.:Yes. I never expected to see them here:.

.:I wonder what they taste like!:.

.:Probably horrid:.

With a shrug, the medic bot waved and activated the door. First Aid and Mirage stepped into the body shop. It was clean, with light green walls and a comfortable, no-skid floor. Light monitors displaying medical images and procedures hung in the air. Consoles and keyboards encircled a holographic projector in the middle of the room. The walls were lined with countertops and glass-door cabinets, laden with meticulously arranged medical tools and labeled jars. A thick mesh curtain blocked a portion of the room, suggesting an alcove for private medical matters. Two doors stood opposite the entrance: the first was a typical slider, similar to the one they had just entered. The other was a behemoth black metal slab with enormous gears and a glowing red biometric palm-reading scanner.

The entry door chimed as it slid shut, and Flatline looked up sharply from his array of consoles. He stood, a towering, broad figure of matte black with accents of red and white. He had sparkpulse-patterned biolights etched into his forearms and white missiles on his back. Though he had a facemask, they could feel his frown.

“Hold it.” Flatline had a rumbling voice, slightly muffled, typical of big mechs with covered mouths. It was impossible to tell if he was irritated or bored by his tone.

The two stopped short. 

“What's in the box? Nobody waltzes in here with a biohazard box without me setting up a containment field.”

“It's an inert and stable material,” said First Aid. 

Flatline folded his arms. The little finials on the top of his head swung back like an angry turbofox's ears. 

“The box is serving as a regular container, not a containment vessel for dangerous material,” said First Aid. He crossed one finger over his spark. “Autobot's honor!”

“ _Pff_. Open it, then.”

“In a moment. I want to discuss terms of, er, service.”

“Yes, fine,” said Flatline idly. “What kinda body work you want done?” He squinted at them. “Is this a pair kind of thing? Matching paint work? Identically chromed bumpers?”

“No! No,” said First Aid. “Nothing like that. My name is First Aid. My friend here has been injured, and you came highly recommended to help rebuild and rehabilitate the affected area. I was just escorting him to your, er, clinic.”

“Ahh, First Aid! Yes, I did get your inquiry. Hmm.” Flatline shifted his weight, looking the blue and white mech up and down. “He's got some fancy upgrades going on, pricy stuff. This is not what I expected, given your message.” After another minute of scrutiny, he said, “Quiet type. Doesn't mind the leering.”

.:Yes, he does:.

First Aid brushed aside the private communication and said hastily, “he's highly skilled at holographic projection, with a specialty in rendering himself invisible to most wavelengths used by conventional optics. Due to the nature of his injury, he is most comfortable communicating directly via comm link.”

Flatline felt a nudge from a very low frequency- curious, he'd never been hailed there before- and opened his link. From what he could recall from the war, this was down near the spy end of the spectrum. .:Er, hello?:.

.:Hello:. The voice had an pleasant accent that Flatline rarely heard. .:I am Mirage:. He put his hand on his chest with a flourish and bowed his head. 

First Aid glanced between them. “Settled?”

“Yes,” said Flatline. He studied Mirage. “Holographic master, you say?”

.:The best:.

“Hah!” Flatline's finials sprang up as he laughed. “Mech, I have seen things you wouldn't believe.”

.:Who hasn't:.

Very slowly, Mirage raised his hand. Flatline watched it warily. Mirage extended a single digit and passed it through one cheek, his lips, and out the other cheek, with no more effort than if he had passed his fingertip through smoke.

“Oh,” said Flatline, hovering between taking a step back in surprise and a step forward with curiosity. Curiosity won out. “There wasn't even a hint of static.”

Mirage moved his finger through his face, a surreal visual, taking care to go around his eyes. He extended his digits like a rake and passed them through. Then he lowered his hand and turned the hologram off.

“Whoa,” said Flatline. He stepped right into Mirage's personal space, peering into what was not there. His field radiated unabashed curiosity. “Whoa, mech, your face is gone!”

.:And you never would have guessed:.

“No,” admitted Flatline. “That really was the best holo work I've ever seen. You had eye tracking, facial twitching, even paint strokes.”

In lieu of a nod, Mirage bowed very slightly.

“This is fascinating,” said Flatline. He stared at the bare optics. “You could hide anything with that kind of talent. Are there any other sites of injury?”

.:No:.

“Ah,” said First Aid. “He does have some processor-related issues you should know about.” He held out a hardlight data sheet. “The relevant details are there. Past and current medications, recent issues.”

Flatline took the sheet. “Hmm, blockers. History of hallucinopsychotic episodes and a recent outburst. Yes. I'm sure... losing your face didn't help with any of that.”

The comm line was quiet.

“Why not see an empurata specialist? They've got better equipment for fine features. I'm more of a body guy.”

First Aid hesitated. Then he nudged Mirage. “Give him the box.” Mirage opened the biohazard box and passed it over.

Flatline studied its contents for a moment, then his finials flicked back in surprise. “A glass-faced mech!” He picked up fragments of the once-living material and held them against his own mask, making soft, interested noises. 

.:Please, a little courtesy:.

“Sorry.”

“Uh,” said First Aid, who had missed half the exchange. “Our associate who recommended you said you had access to... more exotic materials than an empurata specialist would.” 

“Hah,” said Flatline. “That's true. Did you notice all the craters in the metalpothecary next door? Materials expert works there. Yeah, I can get him to mix up what we need. Probably.”

A beeping noise sounded. “Excuse me,” said First Aid. “I have to take this.” He turned away from them and muttered into his wrist.

Flatline set the biohazard box down and pressed the data sheet into a medical console. It was scanned and its data added to his shop's database with a flash. He tapped away at the keyboard until First Aid stepped up.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “That was Rook. I'm needed at the command center for some kind of debriefing. Mirage, can you find your way back to where we'll be staying?”

Mirage bowed uncertainly.

“Great! Good luck! Let me know how it all goes.” The last words faded as First Aid ran for the door, transforming immediately as he exited and driving down the street with sirens blaring.

“Kind of an anxious little guy, isn't he,” said Flatline. Then he turned his full attention to Mirage. “Your case is intriguing. May I touch your helm? I want to assess the damage.”

.:Proceed:.

Mirage held very still as Flatline approached. The medic was intimidating from a distance, and the red eyes and color scheme indicated he was definitely Decepticon. Mirage scarcely came up to his neck.

Flatline stooped slightly to cradle his helm. “Your optics and brain stem are exposed. But you already knew that.” He turned Mirage's head back and forth, peering into the cavity. “I see your venting and intake tubes have been capped with filters. Good idea. I can fit you with an adapter to make feeding more comfortable, til we find a better solution. Hmm hmm and a brace on the inside for the neck cables, clever. No wonder they weren't flapping around. Your vocalizer appears undamaged. That's very good. Those are almost impossible to rehabilitate. Is that a polyclear layer around your brain module and optics?”

.:Yes. First Aid applied it as a protective barrier:.

“Good idea.” Flatline reached a finger in. “Does this hurt if I poke it?”

.:No:. Mirage leaned back. .:But it's uncomfortable!:.

“Interesting, interesting.”

When Flatline didn't elucidate, Mirage prompted, .:Why is that interesting?:.

“Never been able to ask someone conscious if it hurts, before.”

Mirage sent a wave of irritated static through the comm link. 

Flatline continued his examination. He tilted Mirage's head back, lightly touching all the places where his face had met his helm and his neck. Mirage shivered- in all his life those places had never been exposed, and thus, never touched. Flatline muttered, drawing lines in the air, mapping out where the holo jaw had extended, where the chin had met the neck. He seemed particularly interested in a few points near where Mirage's cheeks and helm décor had met. He bent and peered close, his presence massive and looming in Mirage's vision, and Mirage fought the urge to back away.

Still gripping Mirage's neck, Flatline picked up a piece of glass from the biohazard box. He held it up to the light pouring from Mirage's bare eyes. “Hmm. Mmm hmm.” He turned the glass this way and that, lining it up with its former resting place. He squinted at it. “D'ya see that?” He tapped with one finger.

.:No:.

“Hmm.” Flatline poked and touched and held different pieces of glass up against Mirage's eyes until Mirage felt he would scream- if he could. Just as his patience wore out, Flatline pulled his hands away. “Yup,” he said, placing the glass back in the box. “This is going to be one hell of a project. Tell me, did you ever wonder how your face worked, before now?”

Mirage scratched the edges of his helm, willing the medic's touch to fade. He considered the question. .:Not extensively. I've never broken it before. My subroutines are maximized for protecting my glass areas, and I've always been very careful. The paint I use on it is much thicker than that used for normal body work, and it has some additional protective characteristics:.

“Looks like your luck finally ran out. Were the glass parts mods for the war, to accommodate your specialty? Or from before...?”

.:I am how I came to be:. Mirage sent with a lofty tone, using the careful, polite phrase that did not betray whether he was forged or constructed.

Flatline chuckled, a dark sound. “Come on, now. I'm going to know exactly where you came from soon enough. Not to mention, we're going to be spending a lot of quality time together.”

.:We are?:. These words came a lot less surely.

Flatline nodded. “This will be a multi-step process. First, I have to figure out the best source for new glass. Whether that's melting down the old and mixing with new, or growing it all new from the start. Then, oh yes,” he stretched his arms above his head and leaned back, his hands nearly brushing the ceiling, “then we have a lot more work to do.”

.:And that would be?:. 

“Faces are marvelous things in metal. Did you know that most organisms in the universe don't have metal faces? It's true! Our beautiful Cybertronian faces,” he framed his own with his hands in a mocking gesture, “are composed of a complex, durable, flexible structure that is both innervated and vascularized. Those are fancy words that basically mean it's alive, fed by your energon and sensing the world with many tiny sensing organs. A marvelous miracle, possibly the creation of Primus himself! Or maybe some aliens, who knows. But you, my special friend,” he leaned in close, “have a face made of _glass_.” He waited a moment for the gravitas of the statement to sink in. Mirage made no motion. “Which means that all those things about blood and sensing and flexibility are still there, and important, and must be duplicated, but in a material that behaves in no way like metal.”

Flatline turned and sat at console, tapping buttons. “Forgive me,” he said in a tone that suggested he did not care one bit if he was forgiven. “My primitive holographic equipment will have to do for a demonstration.” A cross section through many layers of skin, accompanied by even more arrows and anatomical labels, appeared in the center of the room. 

“This is what normal faces are made of. Uhh... let's say, _average_ faces. Yours isn't abnormal, just statistically unlikely. Anyway, look, behold the miracle of Primus! Blah blah. When the average mech needs a face transplant I can either grow one using old war stock or I can transplant a graft from his aft or wherever. Or mold a new one made of her favorite metal. Whatever the customer wants, right?” He tapped some more keys and an even more complex diagram appeared, hovering midair alongside the first. 

“Here's what we gotta build for you. I've never done it before. I don't personally know anyone who's done it before, but it must've been done in the past. The fact that you can project a perfect replica will save us a bit of time. I can have a reverse mold made and start the crystal growing process. There will be a few fittings and testings initially, but what it all comes down to is, once the stabilizing layer has been grown and fits correctly, I've gotta install the sensor nets and energon tubes and all kinds of tiny things. And by “install,” I mean, painstakingly insert by hand. So you're gonna be on your back, my fine mech, with my fingers literally in, on, and around your face, for about two weeks.”

Mirage's holographic face had reappeared, more out of habit than anything else. He frowned. .:I suppose it will have to do:.

“And of course,” said Flatline, putting his feet up on the console. “We haven't discussed payment yet.”

.:Oh. Yes. What shall it be?:.

Flatline named his price.

.:That's more than a full body overhaul! Two, even! You price-gouging monster!:.

“Ah, ah, please. I was a monster in the past, but no longer.” He crossed his finger over his spark, an awkward parody of First Aid's gesture. “Medic's honor, and all that.” 

.:I can't afford that price. I don't have nearly enough with me here on Cybertron, and even if I emptied my off-world accounts and sold the bar, I still couldn't afford it:.

“Well, then,” said Flatline. He swung his legs down and stood, pushed his shoulders back, and raised himself to his full height. He looked down at the bright, yellow eyes. “Perhaps we could make some kind of deal.”

Mirage hesitated. .:Perhaps:.

“Excellent,” said Flatline. He turned and paced around the room, adjusting and organizing various medical supplies as he went. “I have... another client. Similar to you, in fact! He is also... feeling quite unwell, and also missing something important to him.” Flatline aligned a jar to the one behind it with an imperceptible nudge. “He's given me a _very_ difficult task, but I am, shall we say, feeling inclined to acquiesce.”

.:Are you being blackmailed?:.

“No, no,” said Flatline. “Something much more personal. But that doesn't matter. What does matter is that I need things I have a hard time getting.” He gestured to himself with a grandiose wave. “You might have noticed that I am a gigantic ex-Con with missiles attached to my back. There is nothing sneaky and subtle about me, Mirage.” He pulsed the biolights on his forearms. “But you are subtlety incarnate, aren't you? I haven't even felt a whisper of your field this entire time.”

Mirage found himself wanting to shrink back. He forced himself to stand up straighter. .:Of course:.

“Of course,” echoed Flatline softly. “It won't take too much time. There are three mass graves located around Iacon, as well as six mortuaries. I require samples from as many bodies in each location as you can muster.”

.:What?! Why?:. 

Flatline clamped his hands on Mirage's shoulders and yanked the mech close. “I _need_ them. And _they_ don't need to be whole anymore!”

Mirage wriggled out from under his grasp. .:That's disgusting. That's disrespectful!:. He let his shock flare out.

“Ooo, I felt that.” Flatline shrugged. “Honestly, it's a great deal. Each mech you find knocks one half of one percent off the price. Really, Mirage. You only have to bring back two hundred samples to get a free face. And there are thousands of bodies out there.” He held up three fingers. “A few guidelines, though. One: no Camiens or other colonists, or anyone you are 100% sure is or was an Autobot. I already know they're of no use. Two: no, ahem, glass or wheels or biolight strips or anything like that. It has to be metal. And, three, the sample needs to be at least as big as,” he eyed Mirage, “your chest plating, right there.” He gestured to Mirage's chest. Mirage stepped back. “Feet are good. One for a big mech, two for a small one. That usually covers all the requirements. Plus, they're pretty easy to dislocate. Find the ankle joint and sever using a blow torch. I'll give you my portable one.”

.:That is _sick_ :.

“It's medical science, Mirage.” Flatline sat down heavily. “It's life, and death, and recycling. They're not using the metal anymore. Someone else might as well. And my client is becoming _impatient_.” He punched away at a keyboard. “I'm sure you've seen worse in your time. You've done worse.”

.:You _dare_ compare _anything_ I've done to your past as a Deceptic-:.

“Don't get huffy with me. Look, you want this deal, or no?” He indicated the monitor. “Believe it or not, I had a full schedule before you walked in here with your problems. And I want to help you. Really, I do. I will move around as many of my appointments as possible to get you done ASAP. Yours is an extreme case. It will require extensive material processing, handling, calculating... the list goes on and on. Not to mention, you'll be in my personal care for two weeks.” His finials swung up merrily. “Lucky you! Don't worry. My charm will grow on you. So, what do you say? Or, as it is, comm?” 

Mirage clenched his fists. .:Are these your final terms?:.

“Yes. No! No. Whatever I learn from this endeavor, that knowledge is mine. Mine to use, reproduce, sell, whatever I want. And I won't owe you any more than what I give.”

.:Fine. I'll agree on one more condition:.

“What's that?”

.:Tell me what the samples are for:.

“No.” 

.:Tell me why I will be desecrating bodies! Breaking into mortuaries is an odious task:.

“Client privilege,” said Flatline. “I can't tell you. Just like I won't tell anyone about you and your case, unless you give me explicit permission to do so.”

For the millionth time that day, Mirage wished he could scream. .:Is it for a weapon?:. 

“No,” said Flatline, and his tone changed ever so slightly. “It's for healing. I swear to Primus or whatever god you believe in, that's the truth.”

.:What's truth to a Decepticon?:.

“ _Former_ Decepticon!” snarled Flatline. “You don't hear me calling you 'deluded, little Autobot,' do you?” Mirage thought he was going to leap out of his chair and attack, but instead the medic jabbed his finger at a line of numbers on the console. “Do you see this? This is Lord Starscream's appointment for tomorrow. Am I canceling it or not?”

Mirage felt a wash of surprise. It should've been a cocked eyebrow, or a widening of the eyes, or a slight opening of the mouth, but those expressions weren't available to him. Instead, he felt the hollow whisper of those tiny movements in the hologram. He ached for more.

.:Cancel the appointment. I accept your terms:.

“Finally!” Flatline stabbed the monitor.

After a jangle of upbeat rings, a friendly voice started, “hello! This is Lord Starscream's offi-”

“Please inform Lord Starscream that his appointment with Flatline for 13:30 tomorrow has been canceled! I will contact him at my earliest convenience to reschedule.”

“Oh dear! I don't think he'll be happy about tha-”

Flatline cut the connection. “There,” he said. Then he breathed out, long and slow. “Now, if I don't get jailed for treason, we'll begin first thing tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Flatline design I imagine for this fic is Alex Milne's, as seen in MTMTE #27/Dark Cybertron Ch 10. You can see a pic of it on the tf wiki. He stands a head taller than Ratchet.
> 
> The wip name for this story file was "face in a box" lol.


	2. The Sparkrest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .:comm speak:.

Mirage darted between pedestrians nimbly. He had opted to return to the hotel he and the Protectobots were lodging in by foot, invisibly. His field was wrapped tightly to him, undetectable to even those within a breath's reach. Funny, how it was easier to disappear completely than to put up the appearance of normality. For the briefest of moments, he contemplated the use of a veil.

 _No_.

Perhaps a mask would've been wise, however. Mirage felt no discomfort projecting his face on the Lost Light; the air there was filtered and kept at a constant temperature. He had turned down First Aid's offer to quick-print a metal face for him and give the crew some kind of excuse. But Cybertron was spinning towards nightfall and Iacon wasn't known for a single pristine quality. The dirty, cold air swirled around inside his head. He shuddered to think what it might have done to his eyes if First Aid hadn't had the foresight to seal them. 

_Reflect upon something else, Mirage,_ he thought.

Flatline. How dare he charge so much for services when he worked in a place like this. These shabby, broken buildings that slumped into a sham of a skyline. How could the locals in dire need afford his services? Or perhaps Flatline did not actually attend to the wounded, and the body shop was a front for more nefarious means. Tax haven, mafia headquarters, body laundering? Or something much worse... Mirage tried hard not to think of the small blow torch and subspace key he had in his subspace compartment. Thank Primus he could not feel their physical weight. 

He had no doubt that the Decepticon medic's intentions for the body parts was unscrupulous. Whoever Flatline's client was surely had some disgusting use in mind, but Mirage could not currently guess what it could be. He was confident he would learn it in the long stretch of time he would be under Flatline's care- and find the identity of the client, too. 

He called up a map of the mortuaries and mass graves over his vision. A few arrows blinked at the side, indicating his proximity. Two of the mortuaries were within a couple blocks of his current location. Mirage took a moment to search the local subspace network for public information on them. They were both closed at this hour. One was an all-denominations-friendly establishment, and the other was for followers of The Way of Flame, a religion Mirage was entirely unfamiliar with. He opted for the former and turned at the next intersection.

As night fell, the city's lights came on. It was nowhere near as lovely as the old Cybertron, of course, but Mirage _tried_ to find a modicum of beauty in it. The neon logos for various bars and more questionable businesses were... _creatively_ shaped. Licentious beacons for licentious customers. At least, as far as he could tell. His vision was somewhat poor in full daylight: this urban nighttime, with its jumbles of shadows and spitting lamps, was smeared into haloed blurs. He hurried his steps.

He missed his face more dearly.

 _The Sparkrest: Mortuarium et Crematorium_ was a squat, dark metal building with an elaborately arched front entrance. Mirage walked its perimeter several times, noting the doors and general layout. It was a very simple task, in contrast to his wartime duties. There was no danger of being attacked. There was no Prowl or Jazz in his audials, barking orders or demanding updates. He felt no fear in the air, merely the chilly stillness of the night.

 _Yes, a leisurely stroll around the mortuary,_ thought Mirage. _What a delight. Thank you, Primus, for this most wondrous blessing. It does align, indeed, with those you've given in the past._

He noted, with interest, the seams of a huge panel laid into the ground at the back of the building. Tire and tread marks appeared at its far edge- funeral processions must exit the basement of the mortuary proper from here. Mirage studied the console on the adjacent wall, his face very close. Its grid of lights and switches was easy enough to decipher. He parted the small plates in his wrist and extended a bit of classic spy hardwire. Mirage transformed the tip of it til it was compatible with the ports in the console, then gently laid his hand on its little lights. They twinkled through it. He plugged in.

He bypassed the security in a fraction of a second. This was one of the easiest things he had ever done. Whoever owned this mortuary badly needed instruction in information safeguarding. Mirage scanned the building's main database. He stayed away from the financials, instead focusing on customer data. Streams and streams of names and dates poured through him. He shook a bit; Jazz was much better suited for slogging through reams of data. But, alas, Jazz was not here. Mirage pushed through. He found a helpful map of the interior, the workers' schedules, and a curious list of the currently interred. They were grouped by faction, but the faction data, unlike the rest of the information he had found, had been encrypted. Poorly. There were six dead Decepticons in The Sparkrest.

Mirage chuckled inwardly as he exited the database. He left no trace, of course, but the routine care he took to do so seemed comedically excessive. As he transformed his wrist back, he considered his options. There were no guards, he had a map, and he was _here_. He had all the tools he needed for the job. 

There were only two things he had to worry about. The first being his reduced and extremely blurry vision. And the second, well, it would rear its ugly head soon enough.

After another moment of introspection, Mirage extended his other hand over the console. He did not care to rush into unpleasantries, but the sooner he could get his task over with, the better. This was the only mortuary in this sector. Once he finished here, he would not have to return to this part of the city. 

Mirage made short work of disabling the alarm system and gaining entry through a side door. He pulled a small light from subspace and attached it to his hip. After a few calculations, he had a three dimensional schematic of the building. Mirage followed the path to the morgue in the basement. At its thick door, carved with various religious symbols and warnings about deep-freeze storage, he paused. Another panel here. He extended a hand and investigated. Within moments, the door was open.

He stepped inside cautiously, fog billowing out and around him until the door shut again. The room was dark and bitter cold. His light caught dirty walls lined with wide shelves, like primitive berths. About half held bodies. Mirage grimaced inwardly. While invisible, he didn't bother to project a face, of course. But he felt the frown he ought to have down in his spark.

The shelves were ordered by size, with large mechs along the far wall. Mirage moved quickly, shining his light on their shoulders and wings, looking for Decepticon insignia. The cold bit into his fingers, and he wondered why mechanical beings required freezing, as they did not rot. Unless... he swung the light around the ceiling. There were small domes hanging down, sensors of some kind. And there were lines in the paint, places where something _had_ been for many years, and then was removed. Mirage followed the lines. Using a bit of imagination and the layout of the shelves, he mentally reconstructed the tell-tale honeycombed structures that had been used for spark piling. This underground place was where hundreds of spliced sparks had once been stored, waiting frozen, until needed for war. “Sparkrest,” indeed.

He wondered, idly, if any of the bodies on the shelves had housed sparks who first found life here. Probably not. It would be a remarkable coincidence if so.

Finally, a familiar purple symbol, dulled in death. Mirage shuffled forward, shivering. The mech was big, with treads marred by blast marks and empty sockets where his guns had been mounted. Mirage pulled the blow torch and subspace key from his own subspace compartment, and used the key to open Flatline's. He studied the mech's ankle joint- simple enough, for one so large. With a few blasts of the torch, he cut through it, and hefted the foot into subspace.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of light from beyond the door. He stilled. Waited. Nothing. 

_Best to hurry._

He circled the room again. The next Decepticon he found was in vehicle mode- a small plane with charred wings and no access to the feet. The next was a thin mech, resting with his arms folded over his chest, mouth open, eyes half lidded. He didn't appear damaged in any way. Mirage poked him experimentally. A soft _ting_ rang out, but the dead mech did not move.

Mirage shifted down to his legs and shone the light there. A more complicated joint, partially covered by bits of the mech's alt mode. Mirage almost set the light between his teeth before remembering he didn't have any. He shook himself and wielded the light and blow torch simultaneously.

As Mirage lowered the torch, its flame arched away from the dead Decepticon. He frowned inwardly and pressed the flame closer. It scattered across the mech's plating, spitting little sparks of green and gold. Mirage glanced at the body. Had he been fire resistant, perhaps? Upon closer inspection, he had a nozzle for a hand and looping hoses bunched beneath his head. A small fire truck. A fire car. A fire scout? Mirage had not seen this alt mode before. Nevertheless... he turned the blow torch to its maximum setting and positioned it against the mech's leg. Pushing down with all his weight, the flame burned through the mech's armor.

After a few minutes, Mirage felt himself warming in the heat of the flame. _At least there is a single comfort,_ he thought. He was almost through cutting the armor when he heard a click.

He looked up, eyes straining in the darkness.

One of the little domes on the ceiling opened and extended something thin, lined with red lights, out into the room. It clicked again and a grid of light shone against the opposite wall.

The grid swung methodically towards him.

Mirage swore inwardly. He glanced all around, then settled his gaze on the blow torch. Oh. The dome was a heat sensor. It had sensed the warmth of the blow torch and interpreted it as a malfunction in the freezer system. Mirage felt he should have anticipated that. Peace time, as short as it had been, had dulled something in him.

Mirage swung into an unoccupied shelf and stilled his shivering. The grid of lasers played over and through him. His body bent the light slightly, but not enough to trigger the scanner. It paused above him, where he had been using the blow torch, and flickered a few times. Then it moved on. After making a full rotation around the room, the probe receded into the ceiling.

Mirage rolled onto the floor and untensed his shoulders. He waited a while longer, but no more sensors activated. He stood and struck up the blow torch again. Working excruciatingly slowly, he severed the mech's feet, taking a cool-down break every few minutes. Finally, with the burning fumes of Primus-knows-what swirling around in his helm, he dumped the feet into subspace. He noted that the large foot had already been removed. Flatline was indeed anxious for results.

He flicked the light around the rest of the room half-heartedly. There ought to be another three Decepticons here, but he hadn't found them. Their insignia may have been removed or destroyed. 

No matter. He had more locations and options for procuring what he needed. He did not relish the thought of staying here a moment more. 

Mirage stepped out of the room and almost stumbled back. There was something in the hallway. He had just caught the fringes of someone's field. Or what he thought was a field- it vanished as quickly as he had sensed it. Mirage swung the light all around, but found nothing. _I've been invisible for much longer tonight than I have in a long time. I need to get out of here._ He hurried back the way he had come. Along the very edges of his vision, shapes rose and fell. He went faster. Down this hall, turn, down, turn, exit. He jumped over the threshold into the night. 

Mirage took a moment to calm himself. He hacked into the console one last time to remove any trace of himself, including the system's notation of the activation of a sensor in Morgue 1B. He was startled to find an additional notation: a silent alarm had gone off, and then been deactivated seconds later. Mirage wracked his processor. Had he preempted the silent alarm system with deactivation codes when he had first arrived? The infiltration had been very easy. There's no way he would have overseen such a simple thing. Yes, of course. He must have set the proper precautions and they had activated. He must have.

The exit door clicked shut. If there had been anything in there with him, it was locked inside now. Mirage turned back to the city proper.

He clenched his fists as shadows crawled out from the darkness and walked alongside him.

~

Mirage returned to visibility a few blocks from the hotel. The mortuary job had been done as efficiently as he could do it- physically and emotionally. He had fallen back on the wartime practice of not sparing a single moment ruminating on his actions. Get in, perform the task, get out.

But the walk back had been contemplative. 

Mirage yanked the hotel door open irritably. The place was marketed to lower governmental officials with economical needs. Hot Spot had spoken to the appropriate local reps and procured the tiniest rooms, with the tiniest berths, Mirage had ever seen. They had a pod on one of the middle floors- a few bedrooms cramped around a small common room. At least the bland, functional environment was clean and the air was filtered. 

Mirage headed towards the group of tables clustered around the windows at the back. Hot Spot and First Aid sat together, two bright and wonderfully intrusive splashes of color in the sparsely occupied lobby.

“Hey, Mirage!” Hot Spot gave a cheerful wave. He pulled a chair from a nearby table and set it out for Mirage. First Aid scooted over to make room. “You're back quite late! Join us.”

.:Hello. Thank you:. Mirage indulged in a slump for just a moment, then sat up straight in the hard chair.

“How'd it go?” asked First Aid, leaning forward, visor flashing with interest. 

Hot Spot sniffed. “What's that burning smell?”

.:Me!:. shot Mirage. .:How about if _I_ ask a question, Hot Spot. Why did you recommend that awful Decepticon? He's as trustworthy as Punch's backside!:.

Hot Spot shifted in his seat. “What do you mean?”

Mirage crossed his arms. .:To be quite frank, I cannot afford the reconstruction. Flatline has offered to let me labor trade, but I do not like the details of our agreement. He has me raiding mortuaries and mass graves!:. 

First Aid's field shook with surprise. “Mass graves...?” 

Hot Spot said nothing.

Mirage grabbed the blow torch from subspace and threw it on the table. It bounced between Hot Spot and First Aid. They glanced at each other.

“Okay,” said Hot Spot. “That's weird. I mean, it sounds kinda like him, I guess, but...”

Mirage extended a palm out to them. It was smeared with energon and traces of green paint. He pressed his holo lips together and _glared_.

“Primus! Wow, I'm glad that angry eye flash thing is holo and not something real people can do.”

First Aid elbowed Hot Spot hard.

“Ow!” Hot Spot strobed his biolights in irritation. 

First Aid pulled a medical scanner from subspace and waved it around Mirage. “How are you feeling?”

Mirage resisted the urge to pull away. The scan felt like an invasion of privacy, even though he knew it was only picking up on vitals. .:Fine:.

First Aid's field was awash in critical analysis. “Fine?”

.:Must you do this here?:.

First Aid poked the medical scanner through Mirage's holo face. “Do what?”

“Tsk,” went Hot Spot. “Really, 'Aid?”

“What?”

Hot Spot snatched the blow torch off the table. “Switch with me, Mirage,” he said, getting up.

Mirage rose and switched places. Hot Spot set his shoulders back and raised his ladder slightly. Mirage realized what he'd done- blocked his view of the entire lobby, and thus, everyone else's view of him.

“That's better!” boomed Hot Spot. He lowered his voice. “I mean, 'that's better.' Here, put this back.”

.:Thank you:. Mirage tucked the blow torch away. .:Though you have not yet answered my question! I'm regretting my agreement with Flatline. Why do you trust him?:.

“In a moment,” interrupted First Aid. “I want to make sense of these readings. How was your night? Anything interesting happen?”

Mirage folded his hands on the table primly. If First Aid was going to stretch his patience, he would stretch right back. .:I did see some things:.

“What things?”

.:Some things that might not have been there:.

“Were you invisible? You know it's always worse when you go invisible, right?”

.:Yes:.

“Yes, you know? Or yes you were invisi-”

.:Yes to both!:. Mirage turned his face off. His gold eyes shone in the empty darkness of his helm. He felt the faintest, faintest shudder of discomfort/surprise in the others' fields, before it was quickly dampened away. His spark ached at that, but he kept his own field close, so they wouldn't feel his hurt. .:I'm very tired:.

“Perpetually projecting is draining, no matter how practiced one is,” said First Aid. “Did you take your medication this morning?”

.:Yes. Everything on time. As always:.

“And you felt okay until the walk back?”

Mirage decided to keep the exact details of the mortuary raid to himself. .:Yes:. 

“I'm seeing fluctuations in a few of your biometrics,” said First Aid. “Talking at the shop must've stressed you out.”

.:Is that honestly a surprise to you?:.

“He didn't administer a stimulant of some kind, did he?”

.:No! He did not administer anything:.

“Your stress response is high,” said First Aid.

.:Well, I have not had the most pleasant night:.

First Aid finally ceased his scanning and studied the instrument's tiny screen. He poked at the scanner. “Discover anything while performing your 'errand?'”

.:The holding place of spliced sparks. Or rather, what once was one. And shadows, of course:.

“Shadows?” asked Hot Spot softly.

Mirage's fingers strummed on the table. .:Shadows of people standing or walking around. Sometimes flames. I don't recognize most of the people. Who are they? They rarely react to me. They don't see me. Why do I see them? I don't know:. His fingers strummed harder, denting the table top. .:But they don't bother me as much as the ones that follow me. Some of them, I do recognize. They are from my past. Far back, before the war. They yell at me. They walk alongside me. They reach for me. I hate seeing them:. 

“Interesting,” said Hot Spot, and Mirage felt a pang of irritation at being an object of interest. It was exactly how Flatline had reacted to his injury. “Why flames? Sounds really specifi-”

.:No more questions until you answer mine!:.

Hot Spot sighed. “The reason I sent you to him is that after I returned to Cybertron from Earth, I spent a lot of time with him here. He helped me with some stuff, I helped him. Sure, things get shady sometimes. This is Iacon, after all. But he's a good mech... generally. Goes out of his way for people when he doesn't have to. I honestly think his spark is in the right place, or I wouldn't have recommended him.”

“That's... I mean, I believe you,” said First Aid. “But raiding _mass graves_? Why would he want that done?”

.:He wants me to procure Decepticon body metal for him, but would not tell me why, or to what end:.

“Nothing? Not a single explanation?”

Mirage thought back. .:He said dead people did not need to be whole anymore:.

“Creepy,” said First Aid. “Ugh. Really creepy.”

“But technically true,” said Hot Spot.

Mirage sneered at him. .:I can see how you two got along:.

Hot Spot shrugged. “You could have refused his offer.”

.:Then how would I get a new face!:.

A service drone rolled up to the table. The three lapsed into silence. Hot Spot dismissed it with a wave.

“How much did he ask for?” First Aid tilted his head.

Mirage told them.

“The nerve!” said First Aid.

“I don't think I've ever _seen_ that much money in one place,” admitted Hot Spot.

“We can help, though,” said First Aid quickly. “I'll ask around and-”

.:No! No. Please, do not. I would prefer to do this on my own:. Mirage picked at the dents in the table top.

“That's so much, though,” said First Aid. “I'll-”

.:Please, it is my business. The fewer people who know about the whole thing, the better I'll feel about it:.

Hot Spot swirled the cup he held. “If that's what you want, Mirage.”

.:It's not what I truly want, obviously! But is there anyone else you know of who can do the work I need Flatline to do for me?:.

Hot Spot sighed. “Honestly, no. I don't know anyone who can. The only two mechs I knew who did empurata-style recasts are dead. Well, one's dead. The other is missing. And they both worked with metal.”

“The same for me, I'm afraid,” said First Aid. “Maybe we could find someone with a _really_ good war-time repair kit with extra-fine molds. We could dump high rez bioscans into it. And _if_ we could get our hands on some metallico, we might get pretty darn close to what you want. But, again, it would be metal. Not glass.”

.:Metallico:. Mirage's shoulders slumped. .:Possibly the only thing more costly than this glass replacement:.

“Possibly,” echoed Hot Spot. “With all due respect, have you considered a metal copy? They're fully functional. Lots of mechs got their faces ripped off in the war and you'd never know.”

At that, Mirage flickered his face on and scaled the paint lines back to nothing, so it appeared perfect and smooth. He tilted his fine nose up with a flourish. .:I must have my glass face restored. It is how I came to be. It's part of my past, it made me who I am. My past was difficult, and though I have met no one for whom that is not true, _I_ will not turn away from it. I had embraced it, made it part of me. To start again in metal would never feel right. It would weigh upon my spark and my mind until I would, I think, fully give in to madness:.

A grave seriousness crept through the others' fields. First Aid's visor flashed and Hot Spot looked away, and Mirage realized they had been having their own comm'd conversation this whole time. He felt miserable at that.

“Well,” said First Aid slowly. “It sounds like it's a necessity, then.” He reached out for Mirage's arm. “It's rare to feel your sadness, Mirage. I'm truly sorry.” 

Mirage pulled away from him. .:Indeed:.

“So, you're going to go through with it?”

.:It seems I do not have much of a choice:.

“The raiding and everything?”

Mirage gave him an exasperated look. .:It has already begun:.

“Well, maybe we can help somehow!”

“It would be better,” said Hot Spot, his voice uncharacteristically low, “if we never had this conversation.”

“But what if-”

“ _Shh_ ,” said Hot Spot. “I know it's hard, but we're here to work with people who really, _really_ don't need to know about the kind of thing Mirage is getting at. The less _we_ know, the better.”

“Prow-”

“Shh!”

“But!”

“I said-”

.:It's fine:. Mirage pushed himself up from the table. .:You've helped enough, escorting me back to Cybertron. The task, while deeply unpleasant and horrific, is straightforward, and I am well suited for it. You have your own duties to Optimus while we're here. There's no reason to involve you further in my troublesome affairs:.

“But!”

Hot Spot and Mirage looked at First Aid. 

“I'll keep an eye on the news,” First Aid finished weakly. He pushed something across the table. “Here. New script, double the strength. Take these on the same schedule as the others.”

Mirage brought the box up to his eyes, squinting at the label. .:Same thing as before?:.

“Yes.” 

.:Very well:. Mirage stood and bowed stiffly. .:I shall retire for the night:.

“Here's the key to your room,” said First Aid, handing him a slim piece of metal. “Fourth floor, pod 7, room 4. We'll be up soon.”

.:Good night:.

“G'night.”

Mirage turned away from them and towards the elevators. He glanced at the receptionist as he walked by. At least First Aid and Hot Spot had had the good sense not to say Flatline's name aloud. Mirage had no idea if Flatline had a reputation among the locals. If he did, Mirage could not imagine it was very good, no matter what Hot Spot said.

Mirage found his way to the pod, waved good night to the mechs in the small common room, washed quickly, and collapsed on his berth. He glanced in Flatline's subspace compartment. The set of feet from the fire scout was gone. In its place was a small object Mirage didn't recognize. He pulled it from subspace. It was a ring with some kind of complex stopper assembly. He placed it on the bedside table and drifted off to sleep.

~

Mirage was dreaming. He knew he must be. His senses felt dulled, the air murky. He was prone on the smallest, most uncomfortable berth he had ever felt. The blankets were over his head. He felt a presence just beyond them, in the warm darkness. The presence towered over him, its field heavy with obsession and greed.

He had had this dream before.

It _touched_ him.

Mirage curled into himself. _No,_ he tried to say, but he had no mouth.

 _Why,_ it asked. Its field swirled around him, picking at him with little jabs of pain and anger. The scent of sacred oils permeated the blankets. _Why did you leave us?_

 _I had to leave_ , Mirage said. The words poured out of his mind into the room. _It was no way to live. Once I was free, I didn't want to go back!_

The thing touched him again, its hands running down his sides. Mirage shuddered and tried to kick out, but his limbs were slow. 

_You belong to Him. You belong to me!_ It leaned down, its body hovering close over his, bits of it touching him here and there. 

Mirage jerked away from it, trembling. _Desecration!_ he cried. _You acted blasphemously! Above your station! And you got what you deserved._

 _After all I did for you!_ It ripped the blanket off and grabbed Mirage by the axels on his back. Its grip was icy cold. Mirage shivered. It lowered itself over him, a mass of curling, silken shadows, brushing against his plating. Oil dripped from it and ran into the seams of his armor. Its tongue flicked by his audial. _You killed us all,_ it whispered.

_You all deserved it!_

Mirage gasped as the oil in his body ignited. Flames roared through him. It burned, oh how it burned! He smelled circuits frying and heard optic glass cracking and the _screams_ -

**_!!!_ **

He woke with a start, his spark spinning, breathing ragged. Mirage went to wipe his face, but it was not there. He moaned inwardly and sank into the small berth. The soft blanket had pulled away from his helm and he saw the glowing clock mounted to the wall. It was too blurry to read. Mirage stretched his legs. His feet hung over the far end of the berth. This wasn't his preferred position for sleeping, but it was the best he could do with what he had.

A shadow eclipsed the blur of the clock numbers.

He pulled the blanket back over his head. 

Mirage had almost fallen back asleep again when he heard breathing. His stupor dissolved. He held very still, straining with all his senses. Another presence loomed over him. 

It had a very different field than the previous one: stronger, a mix of grief and confusion. 

It touched him.

Mirage squirmed away. Its fingers trailed down the center of his back, crinkling the blanket between the pieces of his alt mode there. He shivered. This was a new ghost. He did not recognize its field or its touch. Instinctively, he went invisible.

 _Why was I not good enough for you?_ it said sadly. _Why were we not good enough for you?_

 _I don't know who you are,_ said Mirage. _Go away!_

 _I can see you_ , it said, tugging at the blanket.

Mirage gripped it harder. _Go away! Go away!_

_Where is your field? Why do you always try to hide?_

_I may do what I wish! Go away!_

_Don't you remember me?_

The thing wasn't violent. Rather, its sadness filled the room. It was more pathetic than frightening. Still, Mirage wanted it gone. He pictured a blinding light in his mind, then sent it out into the room.

The thing's field flashed with surprise. It shouted, then vanished in a burst of white fire so bright, Mirage saw it through the blanket.

Mirage curled up on the berth, shaking. _Wake up,_ he told himself, as flames flickered at the edges of his vision. He thought he could smell paint. _Wake up, wake up..._

~


	3. Birth Metal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .:comm speak:.

“Mirage?”

Mirage stared, unseeing.

“Mirage?”

Someone was calling him. Where was he? He forcefully reset his eyes.

First Aid sat across a small table from him, mask off, waving a glass of energon. A half-eaten cube sat on a platter between them. Greenish sunlight streamed in the windows. The room was small and bland, with several doors on each wall. Mirage blearily recognized it as the common room in their hotel pod. 

“Hello? Did you hear anything I said?”

.:Apologies. I did not sleep well:. Mirage pushed himself up in the soft chair. He pierced the energon cube with a fork. .:I don't think I can eat this:.

First Aid indicated a full glass on Mirage's side of the table. Mirage took it. He hadn't even noticed it. With a glance around the room, he flicked his holo face off long enough to awkwardly remove the cap on his intake and pour some of the drink down his throat. He choked and sputtered a bit. With as much dignity as he could muster, he mopped up the errant energon with a napkin.

First Aid shook his head. “Sorry, I never found an adaptor for you.”

.:Flatline said he had one:.

“Good.” First Aid chewed noisily. “I heard some... sounds from your room last night. Knocked on the door but you didn't answer.”

Mirage said nothing. 

“Are you okay?”

.:It was just bad dreams:. 

“Yeah?”

.:Similar to what I have described in the past. A new presence this time, however:. 

“Interesting. Any idea what it means?”

.:I do not know:.

“Perhaps prompted by the return to Cybertron?”

.:Perhaps:. Something clicked in the back of his processor. .:Excuse me a moment:. Mirage went to his room, took the ringed object from his night stand, and returned. .:Do you know what this is? Flatline left it for me:.

First Aid took it. “Oh! It's a feeding adaptor!”

.:How... pleasantly unexpected:. Mirage flickered his face off and waited patiently as First Aid showed him how to install it. 

“This part telescopes out into a little funnel,” said First Aid. He held Mirage's hands against the tool. “Feel that? Move that part and pull like this. You got it! Disassembly is all these steps in reverse. Try taking a drink now.”

Mirage tipped the glass uncertainly into the adaptor, and to his surprise, everything went down smoothly. .:It works:.

“Great! It looks like a pretty nice one. Good quality. I've seen some plastic versions that straight up crumble after a few uses. That one's metal, though.” First Aid made Mirage assemble and disassemble the tool several times until he was satisfied. “Good. Now you don't need to worry about that, at least.”

Mirage tucked the adaptor into his subspace compartment. .:Indeed:.

~~

Mirage sped through Iacon in vehicle mode, happy to find that early morning traffic was light. It felt good to drive again. He hadn't been able to race since before departing the Lost Light. He revved around the corner and transformed with a flourish outside the body shop. He was about to activate the door when he heard applause.

“That was beautiful, baby!” 

Mirage turned. A group of people stood on the corner, watching him. They held up signs and had stacks of thin tablets in their arms.

Mirage waved uncertainly.

“Have you heard the word of Solus Prime?”

Mirage shook his head. Religious types. He didn't recognize the insignia on their flags. It might've been an anvil. He waved again and hastily entered the body shop.

“-explained this to you five times already!”

“I know, Flatline, but I just ain't like you, you know!”

“You ain't like anyone, Spreem. And thank Primus for that.”

“Aww heck, don't make Anyone feel bad about it.”

Mirage froze. He tried very hard to be invisible without actually becoming invisible. Unfortunately, the sound of the door alerted the two mechs to his entry, and they turned to him.

Flatline towered over a short, stout, solid mech in the most garish colors Mirage had ever seen. He was bright yellow and magenta, with accents of blue and red. His entire face was a red visor which bubbled with energy not unlike a biolight. Mirage, with a sense of irony, noted that he had never seen a face like that before. Was it even a face? Was it a visor? The only clue to his alt mode was heavy treads on his legs.

“Whoa,” said the garish mech. “Where'd you come from!”

“The door,” said Flatline. He sighed. “C'mon in, Mirage. Spreem was just leaving.”

“Was I? Oh, yeah, maybe I was.” Spreem had asymmetrical arms. He waved the larger, more complex one enthusiastically. “Hi! I'm Spreem!”

Mirage put his hand to his chest and bowed.

Spreem's visor dulled for a moment as he thought through Mirage's greeting. “Oh, you must need a new vocalizer! That's rough, buddy. That's real rough. But, if anyone can make one for you, Flatline can! You came to the right place!” Spreem gleefully punched the medic's shoulder with his big fist. Flatline winced. Spreem didn't notice. “Back to the fryer. See ya!” Spreem lumbered past Mirage and out the door, humming tunelessly.

“Ow,” muttered Flatline, rubbing his arm. “There's a dent there now.”

.:A friend of yours?:.

“Yeahhhhh,” said Flatline. “Yeah, I _guess_ we're friends. More like, forced neighbors, and he thinks everyone's his friend. But we hang out.” 

.:What was he doing here?:.

“Nosy little thing, aren't you?” Flatline pointed. “Dropped off some breakfast for me, if you must know.”

Mirage stared at the simple plate, which might have been a circular piece of metal cut out of a garbage can. On it was energon. Possibly. It was energon of different colors, which, with a bit of imagination, might have been arranged in the shape of an Earth burger, before being somehow simultaneously charred to a crisp and melted.

“Help yourself,” said Flatline, his finials moving forward a tiny bit, a hint of amusement in his voice.

.:Thank you, but I already ate:.

“Lucky.” Flatline sat, swung his legs up onto a console panel, and set the plate on his chest. “Have a seat.”

Mirage sat uncertainly. Flatline flicked the red latches on his mask up and pulled it off. His face beneath was not the same matte black as his plating, rather a richer black, soft and smooth, like living metal tended to be when protected most of the time. His eyes dulled as he took a bite.

.:How does it taste?:.

“By Primus, it's horrible,” said Flatline.

.:Why are you eating it?:.

“Eh, I don't wanna hurt his feelings. He's only got two of them and they're both about his food.” Flatline grimaced as he shoveled the meal down. “The first one is, 'hey! Try this food I made!' and the second one is, 'hey! How was the food!'”

.:Do you give him honest feedback?:.

“I've tried. There's something missing in there, though.” Flatline tapped the side of his head. “There's a lotta things missing in there.”

.:If that is how you speak of your friends, I'd hate to hear you speak of your enemies:.

Flatline snorted. “Indeed,” he said airily. “You might find it offends your delicate sensibilities.”

Mirage crossed his arms. .:I did not make it this far by being delicate:.

“Fair enough,” said Flatline. He tossed the empty plate at the door. It hit a well-established dent in the wall and came to rest in a plate-shaped dent in the floor. “Well, that was terrible. At least we know the universe is functioning predictably today.” He jumped up and stretched, a series of small transformations rippling along his body, armor pieces moving apart and together again. It was a common stretch technique for mechs with complex body types. Mirage did not employ such a stretch, himself. His panels and plating were, overall, too large or curved. The motion always held a bit of fascination for him, though.

“I got your subspaced items,” said Flatline, as he put his mask back on. “They're not what I'm looking for, but they still count towards your payment. One percent down! I'm surprised you didn't get more, though.”

.:The mortuary I chose was very cold. And it was quite late:.

“Hmm,” said Flatline. He didn't look like he believed Mirage, though Mirage wasn't sure why he would feel that way. “You got the adaptor?”

.:I did. Thank you:.

Flatline grunted. He waved his arms and the consoles and light monitors in the room rearranged themselves. “Today we're gonna do some tests and measurements. Basic data gathering stuff. Establish some baselines.”

.:Alright:.

Flatline led Mirage through some paperwork, then had him sit completely still on a dais for a few hours while he took scans and measurements. Mirage used the time to visually scour the room for any clues as to the Decepticon's true intentions. He found the juxtaposition between the orderly rows of jars and the medic's casual attitude interesting. He watched Flatline's activities at the consoles as closely as his eyes allowed- the way Flatline typed, the screens that came up as he navigated his database. 

There were no overt signs of duplicitous activity. Aside from the giant black door with the glowing red biometric palm-reading scanner, of course. Mirage wondered what lay in the room beyond. He wondered if he could hack the palm reader.

“Preliminary physical readings largely normal,” said Flatline, as the last scan ended. “You're _slightly_ heavier than I would've expected. You got anything hiding up in those limbs?”

.:Naught but the weight of divine secrets:.

“Pff. Go ahead and stand up. Do a little dance or something, move those joints.”

Mirage made some graceful movements in place.

“Ooo, aren't we fancy,” said Flatline. “Those are some old moves, huh?”

.:They were in fashion some time ago, yes:.

“How long ago?”

Mirage merely smiled and moved his arms in sweeping motions.

“Okay, we'll do it the hard way.” Flatline motioned for Mirage to step off the dais. “What metal parts of you are original?”

Mirage tilted his helm. .:Excuse me?:.

“I need a sample,” said Flatline. “You got any original metal on you?”

.:A sample for what?:.

“For my catalog. For my records. To test you for a few things, make sure we don't get any contraindications for your new face. That kinda thing.”

Mirage studied him. His field seemed entirely honest, earnest even. .:What do you do with this data?:.

“I use it to... help me... make people feel better,” said Flatline. “Transplants, kinda thing.”

.:That sounds incredibly dubious:.

“Yeah, I know,” said Flatline gleefully. “You're gonna have to trust me, though.”

.:What if I refuse?:.

Flatline shrugged. “No face.”

Mirage frowned at him. 

“Nice,” said Flatline. “Really realistic frown. You didn't go cartoony at all. I would've gone cartoony, there.”

.:I dislike the idea of being added to a database and having my information made available to anyone who might request it:.

Flatline rolled his eyes. “ _I'm_ in the database. _Starscream_ is in the database. Almost everyone who comes to the body shop gets put in there. And people don't come in here requesting data. It's just for me and some tools I'm building.”

.:Starscream?:.

“Yeah.”

.:Does he know?:.

Flatline's finials swung out to the sides in a way Mirage hadn't seen before. “He ought to know, if he was paying attention. I did tell him about it. Softly. When his back was turned.”

Mirage looked entirely unconvinced.

“Ugh, I can encrypt your data, if you want,” said Flatline. “I mean, everyone's data is. But I can triple encrypt yours.”

Mirage made the best sigh-sound he could. .:Fine:. He turned around and indicated his back. .:The axel spokes of my right wheel are original. Some of my shin components are original. A few other places, but I'd rather you not take from them:.

Mirage couldn't see Flatline, but he heard the smirk in his voice. “Fine, fine. I'll go for this spoke.” Flatline tapped it. Mirage heard a faint pop and a hiss. “You will feel a sting.”

.:What are you going to d- ow!:. He let his pain flash out through his field.

Flatline didn't react to it. As Mirage turned, a pink flame at Flatline's fingertip was extinguished. He transformed the digit closed again. It was a built-in blow torch, powered by his own energon. “Got it,” Flatline said, holding up a small piece of metal.

.:What about my spoke?:.

“I put a replacement piece in!” said Flatline. “What do you take me for? A second-rate medic?”

Mirage spun his wheel. It felt fine and operated correctly. .:What are you going to do with that?:.

Flatline was already at a different console, pulling the top off of it. He tossed the sample inside and shut the lid. “This machine will administer a series of tests to determine the exact chemical composition of your birth metal.”

.:Oh:.

“And then I will compare the results to my database and see where and when you 'came to be,' as they say.”

.:Oh! That is a bit invasive!:.

“It is, isn't it,” said Flatline, finials swinging up. “Medical technology often is!” The machine flashed and displayed a set of graphs and some text. “You were forged in the Thundering Crystal Caverns, 097.c013.66o209.4. Is that right?”

Mirage stared at the text. .:That's correct:.

“Excellent,” said Flatline. He typed a confirmation into the system. “Accuracy remains at 100%!”

.:I haven't seen those words in years:.

Flatline turned slowly to face him.

.:The last time I saw them, I was, I was in a very different place:.

Flatline watched him closely. Mirage's holo cheeks had taken on a yellowish sheen. He gripped a nearby chair for support. Stress fractures appeared in the plastic under his fingers. 

Flatline powered the screens down. “Let's take a break,” he said. “We'll eat and see where to go from there.”

.:Alright:.

Mirage followed Flatline to the thick mesh curtain that blocked off a portion of the room. There was a flicker at his feet, and he saw shadows flit away. He hoped Flatline hadn't seen them.

Flatline pushed the curtain aside. Beyond it was more shelving lined with tools and jars, a few stools with wheels, and a medical bed. The bed was incredibly complex, thousands of tiny panels grouped into articulated chunks, with cables and wires feeding into various parts of its structure from the ceiling and walls. Mirage squinted at the bed. Its shape almost looked like an inverse imprint of a Seeker's wings.

“This is my one true love,” said Flatline, wrapping his arms around one of the medical bed's protrusions. “This cost me two years' wages but it was worth every shanix. Lie down on it!”

.:I prefer to stand:.

Flatline scoffed. He flopped down onto the bed. It responded to his presence immediately, and rearranged its parts to echo the shape of his body, like a reverse mold. He waved his arms and it followed, always supporting him. He sprang up again and it held its shape, down to each individual missile. “Everyone is shaped differently,” said Flatline. “This allows me to operate on any mech without having to deal with awkward angles and kibble poking out everywhere.”

.:Remarkable:. Mirage laid down on it cautiously. It pushed up around him gently, like water, and supported his body. He wiggled his shoulders. The bed moved with the spokes and wheels on his back. .:It's comfortable!:.

“Good! It damn well ought to be, at that price.” Flatline opened a cabinet and pulled down a couple thermoses. “I'm guessing you prefer to recharge in alt mode?”

.:I do:.

“Mmmyeah. Lots of wheel-winged or door-winged grounders do. It's either belly down or alt mode up.” He shrugged. “While you're under my care, that'll be your berth. And you'll have this curtain for some privacy.”

.:Oh. Well. That's reassuring, to be honest:.

“Good. Here.” Flatline handed him a thermos. “Nice, medical-grade energon in there. Gotta get you feeling sturdy for the procedures to come. I'm also guessing you haven't been eating well since your accident?”

.:Another correct guess:.

Flatline's finials swung forward, and Mirage realized at last what it meant. A smile. “Aww yeah. Two for two.” He reached forward and clinked his thermos against Mirage's.

Mirage flicked his holo face off, put the adaptor in, and drank. He couldn't taste it, but it felt great the moment it hit his tanks. He leaned back into the bed and relaxed. Flatline plucked a jar from a cabinet and held it up. He spoke, but Mirage could not quite make out the words. He was _so_ tired. The medical bed was so _comfortable_. He felt himself slipping away...

~~

Mirage sat on a soft hill, resting his arms on his knees. He was alone and at ease. He couldn't move, but it did not worry him. He felt no reason to move. Mirage looked over the valley below and the sky above. Earth. Soft, wet, messy, colorful Earth. The clouds moved slowly, but behind them the colors in the sky shifted quickly- racing from the beautiful blue of day to the neon pinks and oranges of sunset, to the purple of twilight. The scene hovered there for a moment, a sweet suspension of all the senses. Just Mirage and an open sky and the most comforting peace flowing down and all around him. It brushed his plating, kissed his cheeks. It wrapped around him gently, as a lover might. Then, slowly, the purple deepened to the black of night, and stars appeared in a spatter, like silver paint. And how _many_ stars there were. How they glittered, oh that lovely light. 

~~

“Mirage?”

Mirage shifted and woke, blearily. Where was he...? He didn't recognize the room. Walls, cabinets, lights... bed? Black mech with white face mask?

“Mirage?”

.:Oh! Hello:. Mirage flicked his holo face on and projected an exaggerated blinking expression. .:My apologies. I was so comfortable, I must have slipped into recharge:.

“Ah,” said Flatline. “You fell asleep with this in.” He pressed the feeding adaptor into Mirage's hand. “Not gonna lie, it was kinda funny.” He turned and reached into a cabinet to pull down some medical supplies.

A sinister thought occurred to Mirage as his fingers curled around the adaptor. He initiated a deep scan. _Falling asleep in the presence of an unknown. Amateur mistake! He could have done anything while I was out._ The scan returned with only one minor flag. 

.:What happened to my sparkbeat?:.

“What do you mean?”

.:It changed from its usual pattern to a very steady cycle. One which is not native to me:.

“Oh,” said Flatline. “Deep scanned yourself, didja? Don't trust me? Heh.” He arranged the supplies into an organized pile. “The medical bed has an intuitive reaction module. It must've detected something about how your spark was spinning and initiated a sparkbeat-to-echo.”

.:What?:.

“It played a slow sparkbeat, via vibration in your chest components, to try to ease your spark into a more stable cycle. It doesn't rewrite your innermost code or copy your drives or anything like that. It's like... playing a soothing song.” Flatline hefted a wrench. “I think we're done for the day. You obviously need some rest. And, of course,” he flicked his finger – the one with the built-in blow torch - out like a gun, “to keep your end of the bargain going.”

.:Of course:. Mirage pushed himself off the medical bed. How long did he really think the Decepticon could feign hospitality? 

“Come around the same time tomorrow,” said Flatline. “We'll continue then.”

.:Til tomorrow:. Mirage pushed past the heavy mesh curtain. Flatline didn't follow. He hurried over to the consoles and memorized their keyboard layouts and resting screens. Being familiar with them now could save him precious seconds some time in the future. The curtain shifted. Mirage jumped back and hastened for the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dreams... there are a lot of dreams in this story.


	4. Pit 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where, in terms of the political happenings of Iacon, we diverge from IDW canon. Mostly because I don't understand what was going on during this time period in the comics XD Or ever. I'm pretty sure two very different times are getting smushed here but I couldn't figure out where one of the characters was at one point and blah blah it's fanfic who cares. Political particulars don't have a huge impact on the story, really, but I did want to note the divergence.

Mirage spent the rest of the day in his hotel room, mapping out the locations of the city's mortuaries and mass graves. It was comforting in a sick way- although peacetime and being on the _Lost Light_ and running _Visages_ were far preferable to fighting, using his war-hewn talents made him feel useful. Competent. Conflicted.

The increasing frequency of shadows and flames while invisible weighed on him. _I won't let it affect my work,_ he thought. _I am still competent. I am still myself. I can still do all the things I used to do. Last night's excursion went smoothly. There is no reason tonight's won't, either._

Mirage prepped the labor trade like a spec ops mission: gather info, case the place, and infiltrate. Thanks to local subspace, he didn't even have to do steps one and two in person. Using satellite views of the city, he skulked virtually around the sites, familiarizing himself with them. He checked and double-checked the contents of his old wartime subspace compartment. Those tools he hadn't used in so long... they were all still clean and functional. Everything that had an expiration date was still good.

A short news clip regarding a break-in at _The Sparkrest_ came up on his feed. The owner was visibly shaken, condemning any who would disturb and maim the dead. Public reaction to the event was, predictably, negative. Mirage watched it, frowning inwardly. _I will have to hit as many sites as possible as quickly as possible. Once the pattern of break-ins has been established, security will surely be heightened._

Mirage flipped through the local news for any other reports. Nothing. _Hmm. I wonder what the local law enforcement division is. Something city-run? I've heard rumors about Badgeless. I don't suppose they would have a convenient, centralized database..._ Mirage laughed to himself. The idea _was_ laughable, after all. _But wouldn't it be helpful to have somewhere to start. Some nexus of the city through which crime spread._ Mirage thought of the medic's giant, black door with the palm reader. _I really would like to know what's in there._

There came a knock and First Aid entered. “How're you feeling?” he asked. He stood over Mirage, waving a scanner around his helm.

.:Alright:. Mirage resisted the urge to send an annoyed sigh through his field. .:You'll notice I ran a deep scan earlier. It resulted in one flag:.

“Your sparkbeat?” First Aid's visor flashed at the medical scanner as he read it. “What happened?”

.:Nothing untoward. Flatline has a medical berth with a 'sparkbeat-to-echo' function:.

“Oh!” First Aid pulled a personal data pad from subspace. “Did you find it soothing?”

.:That is honestly not the first question I would have thought you would ask about a Decepticon medic's bed:.

First Aid's field radiated mirth. “I've been thinking about getting one of those beds. They're really expensive, though. I was wondering how the sparkbeat-to-echo felt.”

Mirage considered. .:I cannot tell if it was a memory or a dream, to be honest. It was serene. No fire. No shadows:.

“That's good!” First Aid jotted some notes on the pad.

.:Yes, I suppose it is. I wish he had warned me about it, though. I do not trust him. Finding an aberration in my vitals upon waking did not help:.

First Aid looked back at the medical device. “Huh.”

.:What?:.

“The sparkbeat the med bed chose to initiate is typical for mechs larger than yourself.”

.:Is that bad?:.

“No, just interesting. Different.” First Aid pulled a cube of liquid energon from subspace. “Anyway, here. Some good, quality stuff. It'll help for your _dark adventuring_.”

.:Hmph:. Mirage took the cube. He could not smell it. The color looked more medicinal than palatable. .:Thank you:.

“You're welcome. And...” First Aid pocketed the devices. “We, me and the other guys, have a meeting with Optimus and Starscream tonight. Galvatron's back. We're not sure what that means, but it can't be good.”

.:No:.

“So... please, be careful.” First Aid sent a wave of support through his field. “And if something comes up, don't hesitate to comm.”

.:Bother you during an important meeting? I wouldn't:.

“Please do,” said First Aid. He turned to exit. “I'm sure you'll be fine- you're excellent at what you do. The best. But...”

.:Everything will be fine:. Mirage comm'd firmly.

~~

Mirage was acutely aware of the limitations of his invisibility and intended to employ his other talents for as much of the night's infiltration as possible. He strolled around _Primal Solemnities_ as a slender, green, winged mech. The somber building had a plain entrance at the front with two guards, and one guard each at two rear exits. Mirage chose the back exit whose overhead light was dim and flickering. He flashed his blue visor at the guard there to see how he would react. The guard's stiff posture faltered. 

Mirage smiled inwardly. This was one of Jazz's favorite disguises- he'd used it several times on jobs deep in enemy territory. Decepticons _loved_ this frame. Of course, Jazz had to undergo extensive body mods to achieve what Mirage could do with hardlight holo.

“Hey,” said the guard as Mirage sashayed over. He was a gray armored vehicle type with thick plating and big guns mounted to his arms and back. “You gotta come back during business hours.”

Mirage blinked his biolights suggestively.

“Oho, unless you're looking for something else,” said the guard. 

Mirage placed his finger over his lips.

“Sorry, sweetheart. You're pretty but you ain't worth me losing my job. I ain't leavin' this post.”

Mirage pouted, drooped his wings.

“I get off in an hour, though. You wanna get off with me?” 

_Fool,_ thought Mirage, but he smiled and nodded emphatically. The mech flexed and grinned, spinning his guns and pushing the plating of his chest out to make it look bigger. Mirage forced his engine to purr in a way he hoped sounded something like a flier's engine. He could holo anything in the world, but couldn't magic his way through sound.

The mech didn't seem to notice the grounder lilt to his engine, though. 

Mirage stepped closer, deepening the blue in his visor. He beaconed the mech with a crooked finger. The guard glanced around, then bent. 

“I meant after work. You got something for me now?” he asked, his field thickening at the edges.

Mirage flicked his wings, parted his lips slightly, and tilted his face up. _So cliche_ , Mirage thought. _But it always works..._ He pulsed his holo blue biolights slowly.

“Ooh, impatient. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have a little taste.” 

Time seemed to slow as the guard lowered his face.

Nearer...

_Three_

Nearer...

_Two_

The mech stuck his tongue out.

_Repulsive!_

Nearer...

_One._

Just as the guard's nose touched Mirage's, Mirage flashed blinding light into his eyes. “AUGH!” He flailed backwards. Mirage punched him in the gut. The guard doubled over. Mirage grabbed his helm and cracked his jaw over his knee. The guard fell to the ground.

All done without a flicker to his hardlight disguise.

Well, perhaps there had been a slight flicker.

The guard moaned. 

Mirage snatched a dampening collar from subspace and snapped it around the guard's neck. His body went rigid, then collapsed. Energon leaked from the corner of his mouth. Mirage nudged the guard with his foot. No response. He pulled the heavy mech up next to the door in a seated position. From a distance, the pose might not rouse suspicion.

Mirage did a quick inventory of the mech's unlocked subspace compartment. Sadly, he wasn't fool enough to leave any keys or passes in an easily accessible place. There were several locked compartments. Mirage _could_ break into them, but he didn't want to waste any more time. He had one hour until this mech's shift change.

Mirage dimmed the holo blue of his visor and biolights. As before, at _The Sparkrest_ , he hacked into the mortuary. This time he double-checked for silent alarms and internal guards. Nothing. He erased the past few minutes of surveillance recordings for the entrance and looped uninteresting footage. 

The door opened. Mirage disappeared. The door closed.

Mirage generated a map from the data he had downloaded and followed it. _Why do they always put the bodies in the basement? Surely there is ground-level storage._ He walked the hallways quickly, taking note of the religious symbols carved into the walls. They were unfamiliar to him.

As he turned a corner, he stopped. There was a guard at the door to the stairwell. Mirage swore inwardly. _What is she doing here?_ He paused, checking his chronometer. _I suppose the news story might've prompted extra precautions, ones made in such haste that they were not entered into the building's database._ He weighed his options. The technique he had employed on the guard outside would not work here. But he had had many more challenging missions during the war. This would not be a problem. He pulled his field in so tightly it almost went out.

Mirage stalked silently down the hallway, keeping away from its dim red lights. This guard was another large armored vehicle type, purple with yellow accents. She swept her gaze methodically up and down the hallway with a whirring sound. There was a huge gun at her waist, but she held something small in both hands. As Mirage neared, he recognized it. Taser. 

_Of course. The funeral directors would not like holes in their walls._

Mirage slowly and quietly reached into subspace. His fingers curled around two objects. One was a jagged piece of scrap metal. He stalked up as close to her as he dared, waited until she was looking away, then whipped the scrap through the air. It returned to visibility the moment it left his fingertips. 

She zeroed in on it instantly, followed its trajectory down the hallway. With a huff, she looked back in the direction it had come.

But Mirage was already upon her. He dove between her legs, planted both feet against her crotch plate, and kicked. She was _solid_ and stumbled back more out of surprise than anything. Mirage spun.

_**Clang!** _

_Ow!_ The spinning move Mirage had attempted was terminated by her thick plating. Mirage clamped down on his field so it wouldn't shoot out tendrils of pain. The guard did no such thing: her pain and annoyance radiated from her. She glared down at nothing.

“Show yourself!” 

Mirage quirked an optical ridge. Such an invitation. He gripped the second object from his subspace compartment. It was already at its highest setting. As he stabbed the neutralizer into her shin plating, he flickered into view, taking on her own form. She gasped at the sight of herself on the floor, smiling nastily. Shock tinged her field and she fell back. The plates in her leg loosened with tiny ringing sounds as her body relaxed fully into the ground.

Mirage pocketed the neutralizer and returned to invisibility. He stepped over her body and, after a moment of fiddling, opened the door to the stairwell. He proceeded down it as quickly as he could, hoping there wouldn't be any more guards.

_beep BEEP beep_

Mirage paused.

_beep BEEP beep_

_Damn. Autoguard._

There, at the bottom of the stairwell, was a glorified machine gun on a tripod. It beeped and whirred, its laser guides shining out in all directions. To Mirage, whose vision struggled in the dark stairwell, it looked like a ball of red laser spines. 

He studied its movements, searching for any hiccups or pauses in its surveillance pattern. After a few cycles, he identified a slight pause when it reset to its initial position. _Aha, old model, C47-D112. Susceptible to a class 3 disperser._ Mirage pulled the necessary tool from subspace and held it out, priming it.

He sneaked down the stairs achingly slowly, one step at a time, pausing whenever the lasers swept through him. He knew from experience that they wouldn't detect him if he went slowly enough. 

Walking invisibly _towards_ a death machine left one with a lot of time for thinking. Mirage remembered little moments from similar missions- creeping through endless duct systems just to be met with one of these things once he reached an open space. Damn, did they hurt when they hit.

Finally, after an eternity, he stood before the machine, its barrels nearly touching his chest. He reached out, slowly, breathlessly, and placed the disperser on the machine. Its methodical movements stuttered, then died. The lasers went out.

_At last!_

Mirage made quick work of entering the morgue and triple checked for more alarms. Nothing else. The door slid shut behind him. He pulled a light from subspace and swung it around the room.

There were about two dozen bodies arranged on berths, similar to _The Sparkrest_. Mirage checked his chronometer. It had taken nearly twenty minutes to get down here. It might take just as many to return, who knew. So he had about just that same amount of time to do some damage.

He walked around the room quickly, grateful that it was not chilled as the previous one had been. The bodies were laid out peacefully, all with arms crossed over their chests. He swung the light. When he finally caught sight of a Decepticon symbol, he hastened. He pulled out the portable blow torch and tested the body to make sure it wasn't fire resistant. He severed one foot, then the other, and tossed them into subspace.

He continued through the room, dismembering until his internal alarm went off. All in all, four pairs of feet. Another two percent off his debt. _Grand!_

There was a flash of light outside the door. Mirage snapped to attention. Was it the autoguard? He had just caught it from the corner of his eye. He didn't think it was red laser light.

He heard a spattering of machine gun fire outside the door.

He waited, breathing as quietly as he could. 

Someone roared. The autoguard went off in a continuous stream- bullets pinging off the metal stairwell, embedding themselves into the walls. Then came a series of high-pitched sounds, like a frame-powered gun charging up- and the autoguard's barrage was cut off abruptly. 

Mirage glanced around. There were no other exits from the morgue room. The edges of his vision wavered a sickly orange hue and he knew he needed to return to visibility as soon as possible. 

He waited.

No sound.

Flames sprang up in the corners of the room and there came the smell of smoke. Mirage made a fist- he used to grit his teeth, but he couldn't do that now. He stood by the door, listening hard.

Another flash of light from beyond the door temporarily outshone the fire. 

Not to be outdone, flames leapt from body to body. Bioglass shattered, ocular lenses cracked. Choking smoke billowed up, obscuring the far walls. Mirage backed up against the door. _No matter what is on the other side of this door, it will surely be better than this._ He activated it and jumped over the threshold.

The autoguard was on the floor. In pieces. There was no one else in the bullet-riddled stairway. 

The fire crackled behind him.

Mirage stepped over the pieces, careful to plant his feet on clear ground. He held the pitted wall to steady himself, then leapt onto the first step.

He checked his chronometer.

_Two minutes?!_

No time to cogitate on the fate of the autoguard. He launched himself up the stairs, not caring to be quiet. He flung the door at the top open, sailed over the guard there, and raced down the hallway. Mech-shaped shadows followed, reaching for him, their fingers adorned with black, glittering gems. 

Mirage ran as fast as he could, lines burning, breath straining against the limitations of the protective cap on his intake.

He burst out of the building and nearly tripped over the guard he had left by the door. Before Mirage could even register the coolness of the night air, he heard shouting nearby. Another mech was approaching. Footsteps and, “Steelburn! Boss says I'm taking over your post tonight! Got something weird going on inside.”

There was not enough time to remove the expensive dampening collar from the guard and get away. Without a second thought, he collapsed into the guard's lap and flickered the green mech hardlight frame back on. He yanked the collar free, shoved it into subspace, and slapped the mech's face.

“Huh? Wha-” Steelburn looked at him in confusion, taking in his heaving chest and chaotic field.

Mirage wiggled his holo wings and licked his holo lips. :You were _magnificent_ :. he sent over public frequencies. He revved his engine for good measure. It sounded entirely like a race car engine.

Steelburn blinked at him, slack-jawed. He rubbed his forehead. “Did we-?”

.: _So_ good. I'll never forget you, uh-:.

“Steelburn!” 

The guard and Mirage both looked up. A flame-deco'd mech stood over them, field blaring anger.

“I don't- I don't know him!”

“ _Sure_ ya don't. Just like you won't know the back of my hand in a minute.” The mech glared at Mirage. “Get outta here, glitch.”

Mirage smirked and stood as gracefully as possible. He gave Steelburn a little wave and sauntered away to the sounds of their argument. 

_That went pretty well, I think! I shall have my face paid off soon enough._ Mirage went over the details as he walked east. _Damn, I didn't get a chance to fix the surveillance recording. It will loop and loop until someone finds it. Those two guards will speak up when I'm not on the recordings. I might have to abandon the green mech disguise for a while._ He swerved to a shadowed alley and swapped the disguise for a hunched, red mech with six wheels.

Mirage walked, processing the info he had gathered about Pit 22, the unceremoniously named mass grave marking the northeast border of the city. Iacon suffered war, disease, and invasions. The bodies stacked up. Those who didn't have friends or family to claim them in the morgues were dumped. 

Mirage surveyed the pit from behind the fence. It was a huge, crescent-shaped hole, several stories deep, filled with mountains of rubble. Entire collapsed buildings had been bulldozed into it. There were no lights down in the pit; its illumination came from piercing floodlights mounted on the fence. They carved the mountains into disorienting, jagged stacks of light and darkness. The base of each stack was skirted with pink. _A monstrous sight_ , he thought. _And that there might be 21 others..._

Mirage walked around to the single gate, where entrepreneurial mechs had hung posters advertising tours. Of course, this late at night, there were no tour guides. Only a battered guard, his armor flaking and doorwings drooping.

Mirage considered him. He aged the paint job on his hunched holo disguise and fished a cy-gar from subspace. He approached the guard slowly, holding it out.

“Eh? Who's that?” The guard held up his gun half-heartedly.

.:An old friend:. Mirage sent on the public frequencies.

“What? Who? I don't want no trouble!”

.:You won't get none:. Mirage activated the cy-gar and handed it over. .:Don't you remember me?:.

“Eh? Ah, I don't-” The guard took the cy-gar sheepishly. “I don't remember everything too good anymore.” He stuck it in his mouth.

.:That's what you said last time. That's alright:.

The mech took a puff from the cy-gar and gave Mirage a satisfied nod. “Good quality. What do you want, _friend?_ ”

.:I've been looking for someone. Someone close to me:. Mirage placed his hand over his spark meaningfully. .:Heard they might be in here. Went on a tour earlier. Found them. But I wasn't allowed to remove them:.

“There's a processing center down the road.” The guard gestured. “Has all the paperwork you need.”

.:I went there, but no one would talk to me:. Mirage hunched further, looking as pitiful as he could. He clasped his hands before the guard. .:Please, let me collect my conjunx. I won't cause any trouble. I need to give them a proper burial:.

“I'm not supposed to let anyone in.” The guard took another puff from the cy-gar, studying Mirage. Then he straightened, his doorwings rising with unexpected vigor. He grinned and pointed the gun at Mirage. “You wouldn't happen to be that weird fella cuttin' up bodies in the morgues, would you?”

.:No! What?! I just want-:.

“Put your hands up,” said the guard. He jabbed the gun against Mirage's chest. It did not clang. His orbital arches furrowed. “Hey, what gives-”

Before the guard could question the nature of Mirage's holo armor, his eyes went dark. He collapsed.

Mirage bent, collected the cy-gar, and returned it to subspace. _Two more charges left on this one. What a classic._ He looked around. No cameras... that he could see. He dragged the guard into the shadows. Mirage studied the sleeping mech for a moment, then his holo armor shifted and changed. He stepped out of the shadows with a gun and doorwings held high.

_Better do this as quickly as possible._

He marched up to the gate and scanned the pass he had found on the guard. Its lights spun from red to green and blinked. Mirage glanced around and entered, shutting the gate softly behind him.

The pit lay before him like a grin split with broken teeth. _I shudder to imagine what this smells like. For once, I am glad the olfactory sense is denied to me._ He climbed carefully down the rickety stairwell and surveyed the closest tower of rubble. 

It was easily three stories of twisted, rusted girders jumbled and smashed together. Broken glass littered the ground all around it. Wedged between the large chunks of metal were smaller debris: crumbled furniture, monitors too broken to be scavenged, splintered limbs and broken wings. Mechs' remains veined the rubble like brittle ore. Everything within reach was soaked in energon: the weight of the rubble above had crushed it from the bodies of the victims trapped within.

Mirage dimmed his holo biolights and pushed away his revulsion. He walked the ragged path between the mountains of broken buildings and bodies. He stuck to the large swaths of shadow facing away from the fence above. But even in the deepest darkness the energon glowed weakly, bathing nearby rusted chrome and glass in faint pink.

Mirage kept an eye out for cameras or drones, but didn't see any. All around him, the metal contracted in the cool night air with creaks and groans, and sometimes, most disconcertingly, sheering shrieks. For every shift of material, glass shattered and _tink_ -ed down from the heights. Amidst all those sounds, Mirage heard the occasional _beep BEEP beep_. 

He came to a more promising mountain of debris. Its skirting of blood had been scraped away in places by footprints and tire treads, revealing more broken frames than building rubble. Mirage dropped the holo disguise and went invisible.

He placed his foot on- he wasn't sure what it was, but it cracked when he put his weight down- and hauled himself up. Mirage went as quickly as he dared, grabbing handholds and grimacing inwardly at their slickness. He scanned the splintered limbs and wings and slashed wheels as he went. _No one is whole here,_ he thought. _What a sad fate._

After a few minutes of climbing, he came to a long, narrow plateau stabilized with a flooring of ripped treads and rubber. Mirage pushed himself to a standing position and surveyed it. It was a purposefully carved-out, tunnel-like area, with a low wall on one side and the drop to the ground on the other. Where he stood was dark, but just ahead there was a diagonal line of light, partially illuminating piles of bodies. They were nearly complete and stacked neatly against the debris behind them. _Perhaps these bodies have been identified and will be removed from the site._

He walked down the narrow plateau, one hand running along the wall. The rubber shifted below his feet. The mountain shuddered, creaked, groaned. Mirage slowed, trying his best not to make a sound. The light flickered. Mirage concentrated on one of the bodies, pushing his rising trepidation as far down as he could. He studied her, his steps less sure as he approached, the rubber beneath shifting more and more.

The dead mech had been beautiful, once. Her black and purple plating was gouged and her limbs had been torn off; they lay beside her, ringed in blood. Her face was half gone, peeled away lengthwise, the remains of her lips in a neutral line. Mirage could not tell if she had had wings or wheels. Her remaining eye was shattered and dark.

Mirage stumbled. He landed in a crouch, as gracefully as he could, and steadied himself against the low wall of debris. He crawled forward, the bright lights from above cutting through his body. The dead mech's legs were there beside her. They were not too badly damaged. Her feet were scraped but present. Another half of a percent of his face, ready for the taking... Mirage crept closer, closer. He reached for her-

Flames burst out of the corpse's eye. 

_**!!!** _

Mirage startled and rolled to the side, nearly falling off the edge. He scrabbled for the rubbery flooring, digging his fingers in. The mountain of debris shrieked and shifted. Flames leapt up all around him, the smell of smoke clinging to the inside of his helm, stinging his eyes. His grip faltered; it was hard to push himself _towards_ the heat and away from the edge.

_It's not real,_ he thought to himself. _Hold yourself together, mech! Get what you came here to get. It's not real!_

The flames merged and melded, and Mirage's capped inputs choked with his quick breaths. The corpses wavered and softened in the heat, their mouths stretching with screams that reverberated between the mountains of rubble. Mirage wrenched himself safely away from the edge into the burning core of the fire.

_Augh!_

The relentless heat felt more real than the shredded rubber beneath his body. He crawled forward, eyes stinging, lines pounding, reaching for the blackened corpse. _Just... one... just get... one..._

The pile of corpses shuddered and melted into one horrific amalgam. It reached its many, twisted arms out for him. They glittered in the light, as if inlaid with jewels. An unholy chorus of _sounds_ came from its throats- screams of agony, biolight glass shattering, eyes bursting- the sounds of mechs being burned alive. The chorus flashed through Mirage's lines like lightning, speared his spark, and crushed it with talons of fear.

Mirage let out a soundless scream of his own, gripped his helm, and pushed himself away, _away_ from the heat and the _horror_ -

-and he fell. He scraped past the twisted metal edge of the narrow plateau and plummeted. He tucked his limbs in and smashed into something metallic and spindly on the ground. It twisted up in between his axels. _Ugh! Is that a corpse's limbs??_ He shuddered and flailed, his head aching from the impact. The mountain of debris towered over him, the flames creeping down the path of his fall.

_beep BEEP beep_

Hot light prickled at his back.

_beep BEEP beep_

Rays of red light shone through him.

_Slag!_

Mirage wrenched himself to the side, cracking the thing stuck between his axels. The autoguard he'd landed on whirred, its laser lights centering on his invisible body. Mirage reached back and pulled one of its legs from his axels. He threw it, but its bent form made it careen off-course, and he missed.

The autoguard's remaining legs were skewed and broken from Mirage's impact, but its front-mounted barrels were untouched. It brought them together and aimed. Mirage scrambled to his knees, slipping on the energon-slicked path. He knew he was moving too quickly- every motion he made was being tracked, but it was too late to hold completely still. 

Deep in his spark, he also knew he could not move fast enough to out-maneuver the autoguard. He crawled forward, hands and knees bloody, crunching over broken glass. _I can still do this! I can get out of this! Somehow-_

_beep BEEP beep_

_**Blam!** _

“Hhchhkhh.” The impact of the bullet forced a strangled, wet noise from Mirage's throat. It was the first sound he had made in weeks.

_No,_ he thought, as bullets slammed into his body. _No! No!_ The bullets didn't penetrate far into his frame. Each one split along vertical seams, extending sharp little arms. They pierced his plating. _Fuck! Taser net!_ Taser nets weren't deadly, but they were incapacitating. This was going to end his mission.

The autoguard made a popping sound and activated a strobe light. Each bullet embedded in Mirage's plating connected to its neighbors, forming a network. They unleashed a barrage of energy.

Mirage collapsed, electricity crackling along his body, pulling it back to visible in erratic, shifting patterns. _No, no! I can do this. I have to do this! I need my face!_ Mirage tried to hold himself together, keep his invisibility cohesive. The strobe light felt like knives in his eyes. He forced his arms around himself and concentrated as hard as he could.

Taser energy and his will clashed. Mirage lost. His limbs twitched and with a final jolt, he was forced to full visibility. The red lasers and white strobe light made his tanks churn. His processor reeled. Dead bodies towered over him, blurry, bloody. _No..._ The taser net surged again and his body seized with pain. Darkness clouded the edge of his vision. _No...!_ His spark ached at his last cogent thought: _I couldn't do it..._

With a final flash of blinding light, he fell unconscious.


	5. The Agreement

Dull orange blossomed across his vision.

Mirage groaned. He rubbed his face. He didn't feel any pain.

He didn't feel anything out of the ordinary, actually. Save a bit of soreness, as if he had been recharging on a pile of rocks all night. He blinked.

Orange walls surrounded him, their lived-in, oily smell both stale and oddly comforting. 

Blaster and Prowl stood before him, blocking the entrance to the bridge. Both looked tired, battle-worn. Blaster was holding a data pad. Prowl's arms were crossed. Behind them was the crew, hard at work, and a rim of sunrise just lighting the helm windows.

“Where have you been?” asked Prowl. His chevron still had a chip in it from yesterday's skirmish.

Mirage blinked. He couldn't remember. He reached for his standard answer. “I was out on a mission.”

“Weren't scheduled to be,” said Blaster, holding up the data pad.

Mirage carefully pulled his field in. He knew he'd been out for an important reason- not scouting, but... something _very_ important. Perhaps a secret mission from Prime himself? “If it were scheduled, than it wouldn't be the kind of mission _I_ do.”

Blaster snorted and Prowl's frown deepened. 

“I know about _all_ your missions, Mirage,” said Prowl. “And you've been going out without orders from me _or_ Prime. Four solo, unapproved excursions. All between the hours of 01:00 and 06:47.”

Behind them, on the bridge, Jazz was studying him, one hand under his chin. His visor was a bright, keen blue. Hound was shaking his head.

Prowl's stare intensified. Blaster's field took on a worried edge. Mirage wracked his processor but could not remember, could not come up with an excuse. In place of one, he lifted his chin. “Kindly step aside,” he said icily. “I have things to do.”

“It's a simple inquiry, Mirage,” said Prowl. “Where have you been?”

“My business is my own.”

Blaster winced.

“ _Ah,_ ” said Prowl. “So, these are _personal_ excursions?”

“No,” said Mirage quickly. “No, these are in service of Prime-”

“I don't think they are. I think you've been going places you should not go. Seeing people you should not see.”

Mirage shot him an incredulous look. “Excuse me?! I do not appreciate these accusations, nor their implications! Especially in the presence of my peers!”

“You'd appreciate if we did this in private, then?” asked Prowl, his lips very, very slightly curving up.

“I-” Mirage caught his expression right away. “No, I want you to step aside and leave me be. Bring your proof of my misconduct to Prime, should you _have_ any.”

“No need to bother Prime with this,” said Prowl dismissively. “I think we should take you to the doctor. You've been traipsing around this organic planet late at night. We don't know what's out there. You should be quarantined and examined.”

“No,” said Mirage, his spark churning with foreboding. “I am functioning perfectly fine. And Ratchet is out of commission at the moment. He was wounded yesterday, remember?”

Prowl full-on grinned. “Of course I remember, Mirage. You won't be seeing Ratchet.” He nodded at Blaster.

“No-”

Blaster grabbed his arm just as he went invisible. Mirage yanked Blaster off-balance and kicked him below the chest. Hound and Jazz rushed forward. Blaster made a sick sound as he went down, clutching his middle. 

Prowl watched Blaster fall, made several billion calculations in a fraction of a second, and jabbed a taser into the air. It crunched into something solid. Electricity sizzled along invisible lines. Mirage screamed. Jagged pieces of his body shuddered into visibility.

“We'll get you fixed up, Mirage,” said Prowl, yanking the taser out. “You'll be yourself again soon.”

Mirage collapsed, flickering in and out. “I... was...” He shuddered as Hound and Jazz pulled him up. 

Jazz's normally jovial field was tight with unease. “Prowl! That was a high setting for a fellow Autobot, don't you think?” 

Prowl turned away from him.

Hound brushed a black flake from Mirage's face. “Where _have_ you been?” he asked. His fingers lingered at Mirage's jaw.

Mirage couldn't answer. His tanks were churning, his lines burned with pain. He pulled away from Hound's touch and retched.

“Get him to the private med bay,” snapped Prowl.

“He's spattered!” said Hound in dismay. “Black, all over him! Is it organic?”

“Easy now,” said Jazz, as they led Mirage away. “Easy...”

~~

Pain.

That was the first thing Mirage registered upon waking. He groaned. Warnings flooded his processor. His HUD flashed with numbers and graphs he couldn't concentrate on. He glanced over the assessments.

Shot. He'd been shot with a taser net. By Primus, it had hurt so badly. Even worse than he remembered them hurting in the past. His shoulder especially.

Wait, where was he now? He saw nothing but black. 

_That can't be right_ , he thought. _I can't close my eyes._

With all his strength, he pushed his head up.

He was lying prone in the street, fully visible. Short buildings rose up around him, their lights flickering in the cool night. They were so different from the broken towers of grotesque rubble that had been the last thing he had seen, he almost startled. He peered at the building in front of him, its sparkbeat logo familiar. 

_The body shop?_

Mirage slowly and painfully forced himself to a sitting position. _How did I get here?_ He looked around blearily. The street was nearly empty, just a group of mechs in the distance, heading away from him at top speed. _What...?_

He flickered to invisible, just to see if he could. 

He could, but it hurt. Residual taser energy rocketed through him. Flames sprang up in a ring around him, pressing inwards. He flashed back to visibility quickly. The fire disappeared, but the pain lingered, sending waves of sharp shocks through him.

There was energon, _dead mechs' energon_ , and scrapes and dents all up and down his body.

Mirage hadn't felt this disgusting in a very long time. He pulled himself to a standing position, wincing. 

_I failed my mission. I **failed**._

Mirage's spark seized up and he pushed the thought away immediately. _Deal with that later. First... medical attention._

He stumbled toward the body shop, holding his left arm. _I dreamed... of the Ark-8. It's been so long since I have thought of that time. I must have used it... as a distraction to block the pain while walking here... did I walk here? I've heard extraordinary tales of mechs walking away from dire situations... did I really climb out of that pit and navigate the streets of Iacon... on base functions?_

He checked his recent memory banks. They were, predictably, scrambled. A side effect of the taser net.

 _Damn taser net. Damn Prowl. Probably why I had that dream. Thematic similarities._ After a moment of internal scowling, he realized he couldn't remember what doctor Prowl had sent him to, way back when. _At least I know what I'm facing now._

Mirage made his way to the body shop door. He waved at it. It didn't open. _Locked?_ Under the waves of pain he felt a faint stirring of surprise. Most clinics he had been to in the past were open day or night. But, he reflected, none of the signage on the body shop indicated that would be true. Or indicated any hours of operation at all.

He banged on the door weakly. .:Flatline!:. He hailed the comm frequency, flagged critical. No answer. Mirage banged on the door again, as hard as he could. He pushed away the looping thoughts, _mission failed, mission failed, mission failed... He will dismiss our agreement, because I failed. I'll never get my face back now._

Finally, a light came on upstairs. Moments later, the door slid open. The darkness beyond splintered as Flatline filled the doorway, only his biolights and eyes visible. They flashed with anger.

“Who the _hell-_ ”

.:It's me, Flatline!:.

Flatline's eyes tilted. He snapped his fingers. The body shop's front room lights illuminated, revealing his missiles positioned at a fire-ready angle. “Mirage?” 

Mirage's shoulders sagged. .:Yes:.

The Autobot's holo face, though eerily calm, was enveloped in a field chaotic with pain. 

Flatline lowered his missiles and stepped back. “Come in. Quickly.”

Mirage dragged himself across the threshold. The door slid shut immediately behind him.

Flatline snapped and several monitors hovered over to them. He guided Mirage to the medical bed behind the curtain. Mirage climbed into it without prompting, nearly popping the cap on his vocalizer with a scream as his arm twisted.

“Let the bed do the work,” said Flatline. Mirage slumped and the bed responded, reconfiguring its mobile panels into a supportive structure. An assortment of tubes and wires curled up around him, waving gently in the air. “What happened?”

The monitors went bright red as another shock from the taser net went through Mirage. He sent a nonsensical barrage of _pain-indication_ data through the comm link. Flatline took it without a flinch. To his credit, he got Mirage comfortable in mere seconds, connecting various lines from the bed to ports under Mirage's plating. The surging shocks faded.

.:Thank you. That's much better:.

“What _the hell_ happened? Is that from a taser net? It shouldn't still be doing that.” Flatline investigated Mirage's shoulder. He selected a tube from the bunch and pulled it to him. Its tip glowed. 

.:Yes. Autonomous guard at one of the mass graves. Got shot. Made my way back here:.

“The battery bullet is in your shoulder. Usually those dislodge, but this one stuck around. Damn, I'm surprised you made it back with it in. Impressed, even. Those hurt like a bitch.” Flatline wiped Mirage's shoulder clean. “But I can get it out, no problem.” He prodded it into position. Flatline grabbed one of the monitors floating above him and positioned it over Mirage's head. “How do you feel?”

Mirage's arm and shoulder didn't hurt at all. In fact, they were numb. .:Fine. But can you not do that:. he sent irritably.

“Do what?”

.:The medic field expression. It's numbing me. I don't need it:.

“The... what? Oh.” Flatline blinked and slowly, consciously retracted his field. He gestured and a rolling tray of medical tools wheeled over to the side of the bed.

.:Thank you. I didn't know Decepticon medics had that capability:. 

“ _Former_ Decepticon,” said Flatline. “And yes, they do. All medics do.” He worked a pair of forceps into Mirage's shoulder, reaching up and adjusting the floating monitor every once in a while. 

There was no pain, but Mirage could feel the magnetic forceps wiggling _inside_ his shoulder. It gave him the creeps. 

_Mission failed, mission failed, mission failed-_

Mirage scrambled for a subject to distract himself with. .:Is medic fielding hardwired or learned?:.

Flatline glanced at Mirage's clean, placid holo face. It was out of place against his blood-smeared, battered body. Flatline shrugged. “There's some basic software most medics get during training which interacts with whatever you've got going on. It's like a skill. Anyone can practice shooting a gun. Some will have an innate aptitude for it. Pick it up faster.” Flatline placed the forceps and a deformed bullet onto the rolling tray. They were bright pink. “I suppose you could download the basic software and see how it integrates with whatever's built up in you.”

Something about the way he said that made Mirage think it was a lie, or a partial lie. He tucked the knowledge away for later analysis. .:Very interesting:.

“Yeah, I guess. I'm kinda surprised you spy types didn't go for something like that. To help incapacitate an enemy, if you were caught, or something.”

.:Some experiments with fields were done. But the medic effect specifically didn't strike me as being powerful enough for incapacitation:.

“No,” admitted Flatline, wiping Mirage's front with a clean cloth. “It's not. Most medics' fielding can't cut through strong emotion. And even the ones who can? Not unless they _really_ push it. But at that point, you're better off using a physical or chemical restraint, like an injection of immobilization fluid.”

.:I see:.

Flatline rearranged the medical bed's panels around Mirage's shoulder. “You are stabilized. All things considered, it's not a bad injury. Looks and hurt worse than it actually is. Between the bed and some boosts I just shot into you, you'll be feeling much better tomorrow.”

.:Impressive. Thank you for your quick work:.

“No problem,” said Flatline. He wiped his hands on the cloth. It smeared with grease and blood. “Are you comfortable?”

.:Quite. I look forward to washing in the morning:.

“Good.” Flatline stood. His eyes dimmed for a moment as he concentrated elsewhere. “There's nothing in subspace from your second excursion.”

.:No, on account of _being shot_ :.

Flatline made a _tsk_ sound under his mask. “To be frank, an operative with your experience should have found the infiltration of a civilian mass grave, and the disarming of its outdated autoguards, an easy task. You came back looking worse than mechs who were sent to war zones.”

Mirage's pride stung bitterly. He knew exactly what Flatline was getting at. This was the confrontation he had been dreading. Mirage almost lashed out in anger – immature, defensive - but managed to stuff his field in. The effort shunted energy away from his focus and his face dissolved into visual static. Mirage took a deep breath.

.:It is with great difficulty and the greatest dismay:. he sent slowly, trying with all his might to keep his field neutral, .:that I must inform you that my processor-related issues are interfering with my ability to work. I can no longer function in a focused, capable manner while invisible. I have other talents I can utilize, but they require more time to plan, and are vastly underserved without invisibility. I do not believe I can complete my side of our deal in my present state:.

Flatline, his own field perfectly, professionally neutral, nodded once. He turned away, and Mirage caught the _very_ edge of his field change to anger/despair. Flatline reset his vocalizer. “Very well. We will discuss this further in the morning.” Without another word, he retreated up the stairs. His heavy footfalls faded into darkness.

Mirage waited until he could hear nothing more, then let his field burst out from him in the only iteration of a wail he could express. His processor problems had finally done it- finally stopped him from completing an assignment, and an exceedingly easy one at that. He could no longer fend off the flames and shadows long enough to do his job. He had fallen off a tower of rubbish and _onto an autoguard_ for Primus's sake. Where was his grace? Where was his competency?

Embarrassment and self loathing crackled through the air. The medical bed perked up, sensing great distress. It shifted under him, trying to alleviate his pain with gentle undulations. This had the opposite effect, as Mirage realized what it was trying to do, and struggled against it in indignation. 

The medical bed initiated a sparkbeat-to-echo and filtered through its subroutines, checking his symptoms against its many lists. Once Mirage's vitals hit a certain configuration of red, it accessed the chemical storage tanks hidden in its support beams. A line of clear fluid ran up one of its tubes. A flexible hypodermic needle snaked between the thin seams in Mirage's neck. It injected until he stilled and his vitals turned green.

~~

Mirage was in a lovely apartment. He quite liked the décor: ornate in some places, clean lines in others.

It was familiar- Mirage wasn't consciously aware of the layout as he wandered, but as he entered each new room, there was only comfort. It was a rather small place, almost cozy. There was a gold tapestry on one wall, the subject of an in-joke, he knew. He couldn't recall the joke at the moment, but he was certain he would in due time. 

Though he did not open any of the furniture drawers, he knew what would be in them. There would be fine oils in this one, soothing balm for laborers in that one. Holo pics hung on the walls. Mirage waved to activate them. He recognized himself in the pictures, but he couldn't make out the person or people with him. No matter how many times he reset his eyes, they would not come into focus. But no matter. He could come back to them later. He felt no distress.

There was a kitchen, a wash room, a bedroom, and a living space with huge, darkened windows. He went to the windows and activated them. They cleared, showing a beautiful view of the city below. A breathtaking arch of golden lights caught his attention immediately. He stared at it, not quite able to remember what it was, or what it was called. Was it a bridge? He was certain it had a name. 

He had the feeling that someone was waiting for him. No, that _he_ was waiting for someone. Yes, of course. He was waiting for someone to come home. He couldn't remember who it was at the moment, but that was alright. They would be very happy to see him when they arrived. And he would be happy to see them, in turn. Mirage smiled.

~~

Mirage sat, uneasy, watching Flatline shovel Spreem's breakfast delivery into his mouth. The medic hadn't said a word to him beyond a drowsy greeting yet. Bleary eyed, Flatline had pointed Mirage in the direction of a washroom upstairs. Mirage had hastily washed, drunk down an enriched energon mix, and was now waiting. Waiting for... he wasn't sure what. 

Since he had woken and untangled himself from the med bed, he had dreaded this discussion. He'd gone over and over the worst possible outcome: dismissed from the agreement on grounds of being unable to fulfill his end, rightfully so, and kicked out of the body shop, destined to project a holo face for the rest of his life. Mirage's chest ached at the thought.

Flatline flung the empty plate to its resting place on the floor. He sighed and put his mask back on. “I don't think I can adequately explain how _disappointed_ I am that you won't be able to uphold your end of the bargain,” he said. His finials were low. “Bleeding out my spark at the very thought of it.” He held up a hand as Mirage started to comm him. “Ah, ah, let me finish. It would also be unfair of me to demand you fulfill our agreement, as the circumstances preventing you from doing so are far beyond your control. It sucks. I understand that. And to be honest, your current condition is more _immediately_ dire than my client's, so we will find another way. _I_ will find another way. You are hereby no longer required to bring me samples. In fact, I would recommend you not go anywhere at night, or invisible, for a while. It seems to exacerbate your condition.” Flatline stood and opened several cabinets, taking down a medical bag and some supplies.

There it was, the official release from their agreement. .:Understood:. Mirage braced himself for dismissal. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he would be reimbursed for the time he had already spent. If it was worth more than the cost of all the scans he had undergone.

“Since your arrival and treatment were so last minute, there are a few obligations I was unable to reschedule. They'll come up over the next two weeks,” said Flatline, shoving items into the medical bag. “Today I'm doing a couple of house calls. I've thought it over. Maybe you could do a different kind of labor trading. If you come along and help me with the house calls, we'll put that towards the cost of your treatment. You can also labor trade for Spreem and Quickmix. What do you think?”

Mirage projected a blink. _He still wants to work with me?!_ It was a _very_ generous offer for Flatline to negotiate around his processor-related problems to offset the bill. Mirage was stunned.

The medic looked at him expectantly.

 _There must be some ulterior motive, here. Why would he still want me around if I can't get body parts for him??_ Mirage couldn't think of an answer quickly. He didn't need long to mull over the option, though. It seemed unlikely that house calls would be dangerous. Certainly nowhere near as dangerous as the war had been, or even the morgues. It would also give Mirage an opportunity to see Flatline's clients and how he worked in a professional capacity. Perhaps the information he gleaned would come in handy. .:Sounds reasonable:. he comm'd slowly. .:More than, even:.

“Good!” Flatline shoved the medical bag into subspace. His finials perked up. 

.:What's the catch?:.

“Hah,” said Flatline. “No catch. Though you're eager to find one.”

.:Can you blame me?:.

“Heh. Would you like me to put one in?”

.:That will not be necessary:.

Flatline made an amused sound in response. “Do your labor trade and we're even. That's all. Now, today's house calls are both for Camien patients. Camiens have a tendency to get inflammation from the energon rations here. This causes pain in the extremities, most often the legs. It's an easy, if painful, fix.”

.:What will I be doing?:.

“Following my directions. Mostly you'll be handing me stuff from my bag. Nothing complicated.”

.:Alright:.

“I'll take a quick look at your shoulder and then we'll go.”

Flatline evaluated Mirage's arm and shoulder. They were sore, but functional. Mirage did a few exercises and then they stepped out into the cool morning. 

Pale sunlight filtered through the smog. Mirage surreptitiously looked at the place in the street where he had woken up last night. There were faint traces of energon there, as expected. There were also fresh, black scorch marks, typical blast burns from body-fueled laser fire. Mirage had no idea where they could have come from. All his own weapons were external. Perhaps the mechs who had been running away from him?

Flatline breathed deeply. “Can you smell that?”

.:No. I haven't been able to smell anything since the accident:.

“Hmm, thought so. Yet another delightful facet of the Iaconian diamond you're missing out on.” Flatline pointed to the building next door. “That's Spreem's fast food place. Ignore the sign; the name changes constantly. Spreem gets enamored with a different, weird alien food every two months and changes the whole menu. He imported a new kind of oil last week and is still trying to figure out the optimum frying temperature.”

.:Should that not be indicated on the product label?:.

Flatline shrugged. 

.:It's not difficult to read a label:.

“It's going about as well as a Spreem-helmeted project can go.” Flatline's finials moved. It was a grin, Mirage recognized. He had been mentally categorizing Flatline's finial movements and, given context, their meanings became clear. 

The sound of pots and pans banging together, and objects falling to the floor, came from one of the cracked windows.

“Classic Spreem,” said Flatline, eyes shining. “Now, over here,” he gestured, “on the other side, is The Metalpothecary. Quickmix's joint. I source rare materials for him and he mixes 'em up for me on a discount.”

That piqued Mirage's interest. .:Rare materials?:.

“I take goods for payment, sometimes. In this city, in this line of work, you meet a lot of people. You can get yourself a pretty good network going, if you know what you're doing. Quickmix is gonna be an integral part of your recovery, since he'll be the one making the, shall we say, assets. That paperwork you signed yesterday? Explicit permission to talk to him about your case. I gave him the details.”

.:Is he a trustworthy figure?:.

After a pause, Flatline said slowly, “I can tell you one thing. He knows patient confidentiality is _very_ important to his own well-being.” The missiles on his back shifted ever so slightly. “You'll find he's not as sophisticated as me, but he excels at his craft! His place smells like a tank fragged an entire squad of K-Class in a fireworks factory all night, by the way.”

.:Charming:.

“Anyway, those guys usually stop by the shop, and since you'll be staying for a while, just thought I'd warn you, heh. I'll introduce you to Quickmix when he comes by. You already met Spreem.”

Mirage nodded. Flatline set off down the street.

He followed Flatline, staring at the sidewalk, avoiding potholes as best he could. They walked through shadow and green-gray light towards the low income housing. Mechs with small alt modes- mopeds, motorcycles- slept in crooked parked lines, their paint chipped and peeling. Faded banners were hung up, proclaiming the mightiness of Solus Prime, her symbols of hammer and anvil abundant. 

“This is the housing area for most of the Camien immigrants,” said Flatline.

.:I see:.

Flatline punched a button at the main entrance to an apartment block. The door buzzed open. They stepped into the foyer, its lights flickering or out altogether. The floor was dirty and broken, crossed with tread marks and smears of energon. Mirage moved carefully around the cracks.

.:They left their colony planet for _this?_ :.

“Yeah. Imagine how bad it must be on Caminus.” 

.:Hrm. I would rather not:.

“Aren't we a sympathetic Autobot.”

Mirage didn't get a chance to retort, as they arrived at their destination and Flatline knocked on the door. The Camien who answered was very, very thin and pale yellow, with large blue panels on her delicate limbs and sprouting from her back. A few shocks of orange and magenta were scattered around her body. She had a blue visor and a mask. “Hello. Are you the medics?” 

“Yes. I'm Flatline. This is my assistant, Tenterhooks.”

.:Excuse me?!:.

“He doesn't talk much but he comes in handy sometimes.”

“I see.” She opened the door. “Welcome, Flatline and Tenterhooks. Thank you for coming. My name is Solarray.” She stepped aside as they entered. “My conjunx, Flashflux, was fine when we first arrived on Cybertron.” She led them through the small and cramped apartment. “But now she can hardly move. She's in so much pain. None of our usual cures work for her. You came highly recommended to us.” She glanced away. “We don't have much, but anything we can give, we will. If you can cure her, I'll do anything! I'll pay anything-”

“We'll figure that out later,” said Flatline.

As soon as they entered the bedroom, Flashflux's field hit Mirage, adding an extra dimension to her affliction he sorely did not wish to experience. It spat out bitter pain and agony. He pulled his own field even tighter to himself. Flashflux lay on the berth, a powerful aerial type, blue, with heat shimmering off her. There were huge holes in the wall above her where her wings had struck it. She gripped the berth and kicked her legs. Pale blue liquid seeped from the corner of her mouth. Solarray took her hand. “They're here,” she said softly.

“This is a common malady for Camien immigrants,” said Flatline, kneeling at the end of the berth, seemingly immune to the chaotic pain all around. He retrieved his medical bag. “Though this seems to be a particularly nasty case.”

Flatline glanced at Mirage. .:Camien blood is blue. She's bitten her tongue from the pain:.

Mirage was caught off-guard by the fact that this was the first time Flatline had used his comm since they had initially met. .:Oh!:.

.:Maybe bit it right off. Go check and see if there are tongue chunks in the pillows:.

Mirage's face flickered. .:Are you serious?:.

.:Most of the time. Sometimes:.

Before Mirage could respond, Flatline addressed his patient. “I'm going to touch your legs. Hold as still as you can.”

Flashflux grimaced, though as far as Mirage could see, Flatline employed the lightest of touches. He peered around the joints of her feet, inspected the seams of her shins, and motioned for Mirage to open the medical bag. He did so.

“Tenterhooks, there's a shiny tube the size of your arm in there,” said Flatline. “Hand me that and the wire-wrapped tubing.”

.:What's the magic word?:.

Flatline growled. .:Please:.

Mirage handed the items over.

“ _Thank you_ , Tenterhooks.”

Mirage sent a burst of irritated static.

Flatine threaded the wire-wrapped tubing into the shiny tube, pushed a few buttons along its side, then beckoned Mirage with a nod of his head. “ _Please_ spread the patient's shin plating apart, here, like so.” 

Flashflux shrieked. 

“I know. I know it hurts. Relief is coming, Flashflux.”

As Mirage held the Camien's shin open, Flatline fed the tubing into her leg. 

“No! No! No!” Flashflux thrashed and screamed. 

Mirage saw, to his relief, that her tongue was bloodied but whole. He pushed her leg down into the berth, using his weight to keep her still. Flashflux flailed. Solarray gripped her conjunx by the shoulders, but she was not very strong.

_clang!_

Flatline snarled as Flashflux's foot pulled away from his face. Blue paint was smeared across his white mask. He caught her leg and held it still. She screamed in another language at him.

“Sorry!” said Solarray. “She didn't mean it!”

“I know,” said Flatline. “This is the worst case I've seen. I can't hold this leg down and work on the other one at the same time.” He studied his screaming patient, her field wild with agony.

.:Haven't you any anesthesia?!:.

.:Quickmix is still working on an appropriate recipe for Camiens. Their pain receptors are different enough from ours that our anesthetics tend not to work:.

Solarray made tiny shushing noises at her conjunx. “I'm sorry I can't be more help,” she said. “She's always been much stronger than me.” 

Mirage turned his face away from the Camiens. The force of holding the leg still and the shin plates apart _and_ blocking out Flashflux's field took concentration away from his hologram. .:This really hurts my shoulder. I don't know how long I can hold this position. Isn't there _anything_ you can do?:. 

Flashflux screamed. 

Mirage winced. 

Solarray's visor flashed from fear to grief and back again. 

The air seethed with pain. It needled its way into Mirage's field and he shuddered. After a long, long moment, Flatline answered.

.:Yes:.

.:Well?! Do it!:.

.:I shouldn't:.

.:What possible reason could you have for denying a patient relief from pain of this magnitude?:.

Flatline squinted. .:It's complicated:.

.:Uncomplicate it!:.

After another moment, Flatline relented. .:Fine. But I can't with you next to me:.

.:Just do it! Her cries are unbearable!:.

Flatline groaned. “Okay. Solarray, I need you to stand back. I'm going to employ an anesthetic effect with my field.” He raised his voice to a gentle boom. “Flashflux? If you can hear me, you are going to be subjected to a routine medical EMF.” Flatline brushed his assistant's hand aside, taking its place in the fold of shin seams. “Move back, Tenterhooks.”

Mirage barely had time to scramble away before Flatline's field _poured_ out of him, rolling down and over Flashflux in a wave of suffocating, deadening stillness. Flashflux fell back, her limbs splayed, wings drooping, jaw slack. Her field _disappeared_. In the sudden silence, Solarray yelped, feeling the paralyzing calm from where she stood. Flatline's arms shook with the effort of maintaining his field while working the tubing.

Mirage reached to help, but his hands curled uselessly as soon as he got too close. He backed away.

“That's scary,” Solarray said quietly. She hugged her long arms around herself. “We have medics at home, but they can't... I didn't know medics could _do that_.” She shuddered. “At least she's not in pain...” 

Mirage nodded. 

“ _You're_ so calm, though. How much longer will it be?”

Mirage frowned inwardly. He had no idea at all. He shrugged as gracefully as he could.

Solarray held herself tighter.

Though the deadening field technically could not effect the temperature, Mirage and Solarray felt chill on their plating. It spiraled out from the berth with Flatline's ragged breathing, like gusts from a windstorm. Mirage scanned his memory. He had felt bizarre and powerful fields in his time, but he had never encountered a medical EMF like this before. It was nothing like the gentle coaxing of an emergency responder's field, or the firm, safe field of an Autobot medic's.

At last, Flatline pulled the tube out of the seam. The cold, numbing field vanished. Flashflux's body shook and she opened her eyes. Flatline groaned and faceplanted onto the bed.

“Flashflux!” Solarray ran to her side. She cradled her conjunx's face. “Are you alright?”

“Fine!” she replied. Flashflux sat up, her wings bouncing to a healthy, happy height. “By Solus, I feel absolved of all pain!”

Mirage blocked out their bubbly reunion and stood next to Flatline. .:What the hell was that? Effective, certainly, but excessive!:.

Flatline moaned. Then he slowly pushed himself up to a standing position. His eyes were faint, as if he had not recharged in weeks, and he swayed.

Flashflux and Solarray both looked up at him. His height had blocked their light.

“Thank you!” said Solarray. “Thank you both, so much!”

“Yes,” said Flashflux, grinning. “I feel reborn!”

Flatline gave them a professional thumb's up.

“What do we owe you?” asked Solarray, rising from the berth.

Flatline glanced at Mirage.

.:I have no idea what your prices are:.

.:You're... no help... at all:. Flatline reset his eyes. “Uh... standard fee... 150 shanix.”

Solarray's panels drooped and Flashflux's face fell. “Oh, we don't have-”

“That's so much, I mean-”

“Of course, it was worth it-”

“We can find the money-”

Flatline moaned and rubbed his forehead. His finials swung in different directions, alternating back and forth. “Do you have 60? You can labor trade the rest.”

“Yes!” said Flashflux. She pulled coins from her subspace, counting them out. “I have... I have 56. What do you have, love?”

“I have, oh, seven, oh good.” Solarray pressed the money into Flatline's palm. “Thank you!”

Flatline tossed the money into his bag. “Tomorrow,” he said, gesturing to Flashflux. “If you're comfortable in alt mode, come to my shop. The roof of the building next door needs repair. Belongs to my buddy. You can work off the rest by doing that.”

“Okay!”

Flatline fished around inside his medic bag. “Here,” he said, handing a cylinder to Solarray. “This is a filter. Everything you drink, run it through there, first. It'll help remove the compounds that caused the problem.” He groaned and rubbed his forehead again. “You both know where the bazaar is, at coordinates 164.3983?”

“Yes,” they said.

“There's a Camien stall there. Red and white drapes. Ask for energon filters. They'll get you stocked up. And you should tell any other recent arrivals in your community about the filters, too.”

~~

.:What was that?:.

Flatline leaned against the Camiens' apartment building, rubbing his face. The morning smog of Iacon was slowly clearing and the sunlight shone less green. “What was what?”

.:That display. I've never seen anything like that:.

“The what?”

Mirage shifted his weight impatiently. .:The anesthetic effect!:.

“Oh.” Flatline held his forearm up to Mirage. The sparkbeat pattern etched into it glowed red like his other biolights. “Well, you see, Mirage. There's a reason they called me Flatline.” The sparkbeat pattern went out. 

Mirage's holo mouth opened slightly.

“ _Patients_ , shall we say, are much easier to lead towards their fates when they're not flailing and screaming.” The sparkbeat pattern pulsed once, then returned to its natural glow.

.:Is that something other Decepticon medics can do?:.

Flatline scoffed. “ _Former_ Decepticon medic, in my case, and no. As far as I know, I'm the only one who can do that.”

.:How?:.

Flatline shrugged. “Dunno. But it takes a lot out of me.” He stretched his arms behind his back. “Haven't done that in about a thousand years. Urgh.” He pulled a missile from his back, popped the cap off, and undid his mask.

.:What are you doing?:.

“Refueling.” Flatline tipped the missile up and guzzled noisily.

.:You keep _energon_ in those missiles? Are they _live?_ :.

“Yes and yes. Most potable energon is weapons grade, after all.” He held the missile out to Mirage. “Want some?”

.:No, I-:. Mirage held his hands up. .:-I cannot consume easily in public:.

“Oh, right.” Flatline returned the missile to his back and picked up the medical bag. He scuffed the blue smear off his mask and clicked it into place. His finials sprang up. “I feel much better now! Let's head to the next place.”

~

The second patient was a motorcade alt who lived in a penthouse suite overlooking Iacon. A well-polished servant led them to her bedroom, where she laid in a berth surrounded by fine tapestries and works of art. Several mechanofelid creatures purred and rubbed against her sparking legs. She sneered at Mirage when Flatline introduced him as an assistant.

She complained and nitpicked and wailed all through the procedure.

.:Damn, she is unpleasant:. sent Flatline.

.:Yes, quite. The joke is on her, though. Half these works of art are fake:.

Flatline smirked.

The treatment went uneventfully. Flatline charged the Camien four times more than what he had charged Flashflux and Solarray. And, while he informed her of the need for a filter, he did not provide her with a free one, even though Mirage knew there were several in the medical bag.

Mirage noted these things with great interest. 

~~

.:Who is next?:. he sent once they had exited the wealthy Camien's building. The sun had burned off the rest of the morning smog. It was a little warm. Mirage could feel the heat of the road beneath his feet.

“That's it for today,” said Flatline, setting off. “We'll return to the shop and I'll take some recordings. Got a fun little exercise for you. Maybe Spreem will have something edible for us for lunch. You can labor trade at his place, too.”

Mirage dodged between people, keeping pace with Flatline. .:You didn't charge that Camien the same amount you charged the previous two:.

“Nope.” Flatline swung the medical bag jovially, nearly striking a fellow pedestrian.

.:Her demeanor aside, I don't suppose you think that's some sort of fair?:.

“It's exactly fair,” said Flatline, finials wiggling. “And _I_ get to set the prices. Would you do any differently?”

.:I honestly could not say whether or not I would. What if you misjudged someone's perceived wealth?:.

“Hah, that's never happened.” 

.:It's not even in the realm of possibility?:.

“Nope!”

They made their way back to the shop. Flatline paused at the door. “This reminds me, I have to add your signature to my alarm system so it doesn't go off when you're here for future overnights.”

.:Alright. What do I have to do?:.

“Consent to the process.” 

.:I consent to having my signature added to your alarm system for the singular and express purpose of bypassing security screenings for the duration of my stay:. sent Mirage.

“Heh. You sure you were a spy and not a lawyer?” Flatline's expression went distant for a moment while he accessed his shop's systems remotely. The door clicked open. 

.:Quite:.

“Pff.” Flatline gestured with an exaggerated flourish. “After you.”

Mirage tilted his holo nose up and entered with the same exaggerated body language Flatline had used. The medic chuckled and followed him inside.

Flatline dumped his bag out on a counter. Mirage sauntered over to the consoles, glancing at them as inconspicuously as possible. “There's some drinks in that cabinet, there,” said Flatline, pointing. “Help yourself. Grab me one of the tall ones.”

To his surprise, Mirage found that the cabinet was refrigerated. He pushed the cans around, looking through the available flavors until he remembered he wouldn't be tasting it anyway. He sighed inwardly and picked a random one for himself.

“Thanks,” said Flatline, taking the drink Mirage offered. He finished sorting his medical supplies and tucked the bag away. He opened the drink and held it up in a toast. “Another one percent knocked off your debt. Good work.”

.:I was not expecting praise:. Mirage sat and returned the gesture. .:Thank you:.

Flatline shrugged. He sat and swung his feet up onto the consoles. With an inaudible signal, several light monitors floated over and hovered around him. He pulled one down and resized it into a handheld tablet. 

As Mirage fitted his feeding adaptor in, Flatline arranged the light monitors. They drank in silence for a while. Flatline pulled monitors towards and away from himself, flicking through files, typing frantically at times. “Client messages,” he said with a shake of the head. 

Mirage wondered what they were about. .:I found writing my reports for Prowl to be an odious task:. 

“Ugh, reports. Don't miss those. I gotta make some calls. Won't take long.”

Mirage expected Flatline to dismiss him, or at the very least turn away, but he made no attempt to conceal the contents of his calls. Mirage listened to the conversations closely, but they were filled with either medic lingo or some kind of code he was unfamiliar with. A couple were reschedules for appointments with more Camiens.

Well, obviously Flatline wouldn't make important calls right in front of him. Mirage finished his drink, removed the adaptor, and amused himself by projecting holograms of various crystals. He had just finished entwining an ornate hardlight decoration around his wrist when he realized Flatline was speaking to him.

“-you ready for the next thing? It'll be fun.”

.:Fun? I suppose:.

Flatline nudged a few of the light monitors. “Okay, all you have to do is sit there and look in my direction. I'm going to ask you a series of questions designed to prompt different emotional reactions. Your holographic face is being recorded. Act as naturally as you can. Project the first thing you feel.” Flatline swung his legs down and grabbed a stylus for his data pad. “Are you ready?”

Mirage straightened his shoulders and folded his hands in his lap. .:Yes:.

“Who was your first frag?”

.:What?!:.

“That got a good reaction!” Flatline laughed and made a check mark on his list. “Excellent.”

.:Unprofessional!:.

“You gotta admit, it's a good way to register shock,” said Flatline.

Mirage's face shifted into a low resolution, black and white version, crackling with visual static. He stuck his tongue out. 

“Oh, you have a sense of humor! Fantastic. I mean that sincerely, by the way.” Flatline looked down the list. “Tell me your favorite memory.”

The black and white snapped back to high resolution color. Mirage looked thoughtful. .:I am fortunate, for there are quite a few to choose from:.

“Whatever,” said Flatline. “Just say whatever.”

Mirage smiled. .:The first time I saw myself in the mirror and was happy:.

Flatline raised an optical ridge and scribbled on the data pad. He wrote for far longer than Mirage thought was necessary. “Okay. Have you ever been betrayed?”

The hologram twisted through rage and grief so fast it blitzed static and went dark around the edges.

“Now _that's_ a metaphor,” said Flatline. “Your face literally darkening. Living poetry. But it's not very helpful for our situation here.”

Mirage shot him a look.

“Oh, but that's a good one! I can cross off question 9.”

.:Perhaps you could just ask me to model the expressions directly?:. sent Mirage with a huff.

Flatline set the data pad on the table. “Absolutely. I was wondering when you'd figure that out. Oh! And there's another expression. Question 27 covered. Good job!”

.:Really!:.

Flatline's finials swung up. “Only the best for you, Mirage!” He was rewarded with the answer to question 13. “Hah! This is great. I'm a genius.”

.:Provoking a patient for results doesn't strike me as geni-:.

Mirage's comm was cut off by the sound of the door opening and then footsteps.

“Yo,” came a voice. Mirage did not recognize it. 

Flatline swiveled around in his chair as a red and white Autobot entered. “Hey. You got some lunch for me?”

The Autobot tossed a bag at Flatline. “There you go, fresh from the sewer.”

Flatline caught the bag. “Don't let him hear you say that, jackass.”

The new mech ignored Flatline. “Hel- _lo_ ,” he said, walking around the consoles to approach Mirage. A grin was evident in the flash of his yellow eyes. He was masked, about Mirage's height, with wheels in his shoulders, and a rotating mixer for a torso. There were two enormous holsters at his hips filled with little containers instead of guns. He leered in a very unsubtle way.

Mirage stood. .:Yes?:. he sent over the public frequencies.

“ _Nice_ finish. And just a _little_ banged up. Mmm-mmm.”

Mirage bristled.

“Quickmix, don't be gross,” said Flatline. “Mirage, Quickmix. He works at The Metalpothecary next door. Quickmix, Mirage. He's the client we talked about last night.”

“A delight,” said Quickmix, offering his hand. Mirage hesitantly shook it. “Delicate fingers. Good for getting into tight places. What did you do during the war, sweetheart?”

.:Ah, the K-class factory orgy reject. Flatline warned me about you:. 

“Excuse you,” said Quickmix. “I haven't had a premature explosion in weeks.” 

Mirage pulled his hand back. 

“Heh.” Quickmix took a container out from one of his holsters. He opened it. 

“What do you have there, Quickmix?” Flatline opened the bag and sniffed its contents. “Ugh. Well? Maybe.” He removed his mask and shoveled short, thick sticks of yellow energon into his mouth. He chewed noisily.

Quickmix held out the box. It was filled with glass shards. “I came over to get the originals.”

Mirage peered at them. .:Whose were these?:.

“Huh? Oh, this is biolight glass. My little pet project. I've been playing with different things. You know how people are about biolights. Lotsa fads. Lotsa opportunities to make some money.”

.:I recall some of the fads from my day. Dangerous business:.

“Heh. You mean the light snatchers? Nah, nothing like that. People don't like messing with the energon anymore.” 

.:That's good:.

“It's all about the glass.” Quickmix held up one of the shards. It caught the shop light and split it into rays of gold and orange.

“Hence his involvement in your case,” said Flatline, mouth full. Mirage nodded.

“Flatline told me a little about what you're looking for,” Quickmix said, stirring the glass shards idly with a finger. “Said maybe you'd want the old stuff melted to make the new?”

.:I hadn't thought on it that far, to be honest:.

“Good. Cuz I don't think that's a great idea. What you had is dead now, but not like how metal dies, you know? It's thin and brittle. Worn down over the years. Fragile. Hence...” he trailed off and waved casually at Mirage's holo face.

.:Yes:.

“So, I'm gonna grow you some new stuff. But, you know, I can thread metal through it so it's not translucent. You wouldn't have to paint it. It'd still be glass, but opaque, and strengthened... glass and metal woven together. It'd catch the light. It'd be... sparkly. Flashy. _You'd_ like that, wouldn't you?”

.:No:. sent Mirage firmly. .:I want the glass to be transparent, as I was forged. As proper glass is:.

“Transparent... with paint over it.”

.:I like having the choice to make it clear or opaque at my own discretion:.

Quickmix shook his head. “That's stupid.”

Mirage shot him a nasty look.

Flatline hastily passed Quickmix the biohazard box. “Here.”

Quickmix pushed the pieces around. “Yeah, wow. Look at this...” He held up a curved chunk to the light and squinted. “Yep. Definitely dead.”

.:Obviously. Thank you for the reminder:.

Quickmix chuckled, an unpleasant sound.

.:What are you going to do with that?:.

“Put it back together, best I can, so Flatline can scan it. See how all your blood vessels and shit worked. Nerves. You know. _Medic stuff._ ”

.:But afterwards? You're not going to throw it away, are you?:.

“Uh. I was gonna melt some of it down and mix it with other stuff and see what happened.”

Mirage's field seeped out with indignation. .:But that's my face! I don't want it being experimented on!:.

“It's a unique opportunity,” said Quickmix. “Gotta capitalize on it.”

.:But it's _my face!_ :.

“Mirage,” said Flatline quickly. “One of the stipulations of our agreement was that you didn't keep any results of the R&D for this project.”

.:But-!:.

“Don't pop a pretty panel,” said Quickmix. “After the reconstruction and scans are done, you can resmash it yourself and keep a piece.”

Mirage's eyes flashed. .:How _dare_ you:.

Quickmix shrugged. 

Mirage pressed his holo lips together.

Then he vanished.

“Wha-” Quickmix blinked. “What the hell-” His arm jerked down as something slammed into the biohazard box he held. A piece of glass floated upwards by itself, spun, and disappeared. “What?!”

Mirage reappeared halfway across the room, his chest plates just snapping shut. His holo grin was smug.

“First of all,” shouted Quickmix. “What the hell??”

Flatline groaned. “He was a spy for you Autobots, Quickmix.”

“Well!” Quickmix struggled between being impressed and angry. “Well, that's a fucking awesome talent and I'm jealous. I could sneak into all the places I've been banned from. But also, _what the hell?_ How's Flatline gonna get an accurate scan now, you upperclass twit?”

.:My face was _perfectly_ symmetrical. You can extrapolate the data:.

Flatline's finials went back and he cradled his head in his hands. “Mirage, did you really just shove an unsterilized piece of dead tissue into your spark chamber?”

.:No! Surely not. It's outside the chamber:.

“But it's rattling around in your chest cavity?” 

.:Er:.

Quickmix scoffed. “Idiot.”

.: _Fool_ :.

“Mirage,” interjected Flatline, “you can keep that piece, but at least let me sterilize it and solder it down. And _you,_ ” Flatline stood, closed the biohazard box, and forcefully turned Quickmix around so he faced the door. “Get started. I'll send you some pictures to help the assembly process. As soon as it's done being put together I wanna know.”

.:And don't do anything crude with my face!:. 

“What do you take me for?” said Quickmix indignantly, the mixer in his chest spinning a little faster. “Think I'm gonna rub your broken lips all over my-”

“Out! Out!” Flatline pushed Quickmix out the door. “See you later!”

“-glass splinters all in my-” his sentence was cut off by the door closing.

Flatline shot Mirage a look. 

.:I believe that is the answer to question 7!:.

“Ha ha. I didn't think you two would get along very well.”

.:He better not do anything untoward with the remains of my face:.

Flatline rubbed the sides of his helm. “Primus, help me.” His field radiated irritation. “Mirage, open your chest.”

.:Rude!:. Mirage folded his arms.

Flatline growled. “Or take that glass piece out yourself, I don't care. Just don't leave it in there.”

Mirage turned away. There was a tiny transformation sound, then he turned back. .:Here:. He held out the glass piece. 

Flatline tried to take it, but Mirage didn't let go. He tugged the glass. “Mirage?”

A flash of fear and grief came through Mirage's field.

Flatline sighed. “I get it, okay? Things happen and shit gets scary and then you gotta rely on strangers to help you. It's not ideal. It's not what you _ever_ wanted. But it's what you gotta do.” He tugged the glass again and Mirage let it go. “Why don't you go next door and do a labor trade with Spreem. It'll be a good distraction. I'll prepare this so it's safe to keep.” 

Mirage nodded and wordlessly exited the body shop.

~~


	6. Former Decepticon

Mirage peered through the cracked glass door of **SPREEM'S BURGERS**. His holo face was set to a careful, neutral expression, though he felt a lingering trepidation from Flatline's parting words. He steadied his breathing and pushed the door open. It was warm inside. Mirage was once again grateful he had no sense of smell; it looked unpleasant enough. The floor was discolored and sticky-looking. The stools and tables strewn around didn't match. The walls were covered in cheap holopics of Earth and its various cuisines. 

“Flatline? I'm back here!” Spreem shouted from the kitchen.

Mirage made his way behind the warped counter into the kitchen beyond.

Thankfully, it wasn't the disgusting mess he had anticipated. Things certainly needed cleaning up, but it looked no more messy than his own bar had been after a heavy night of celebration. The appliances still had the shine of recent purchase. There were long stove tops along one wall, a bank of fridges, huge ovens stacked on each other, and dozens of cupboards crammed into the remaining space. Spreem stood at one of the stove tops, his feet partially transformed so that he was tall enough to stir a huge pot. He balanced precariously, stirring with his larger arm. An array of open containers was spread out on the counter beside him, spilling their contents in little colorful piles. “Oh! Hi!”

Mirage waved and hailed Spreem with a greeting on a public frequency. No answer. He tried again. Spreem happily stirred, humming to himself and bouncing a bit. Mirage tried a few more public frequencies before realizing that Spreem must have turned off his comm link entirely. He walked towards the stout mech, pointing to the side of his head.

“What's that?” Spreem's stirring faltered. “Oh, you can't hear me? OKAY, I'LL TALK LOUDER.”

The sudden shouting caught Mirage off guard. Just as he began to shake his head, Spreem continued.

“HEY, WELCOME TO MY KITCHEN! DID FLATLINE SEND YOU?”

Mirage groaned inwardly. He nodded once, very clearly. Then pointed to his throat and made a “talking hand” gesture.

“OH YOU STILL CAN'T TALK? THAT'S OKAY. WE LIKE ALL TYPES HERE.” Spreem's visor bubbled and a blast of excitement came through his field. “AM I LOUD ENOUGH?”

Mirage stumbled back, despite himself. The mech was _loud_. He wracked his processor for a way to communicate. He pointed to his audials, exaggeratedly mimed comm-ing through a wrist communicator, tapped on the counter in military code, tried to emulate the motion of sound waves by wiggling his fingers, and then put up a hologram of Soundwave himself with arrows pointing at his head. Every method was met with, what he assumed was, a blank stare from the bubbly visor.

Finally, Mirage waved his hand and displayed a holo message, fervently hoping that the Autobot was intelligent enough to actually read. **PLEASE TURN YOUR COMM ON TO A PUBLIC FREQUENCY.**

The visor swiveled slowly as he took in the words. “OHHHHHHH. NO PROBLEM!” Spreem tilted his head and made an audible clicking sound.

Mirage hastily sent a hail over the entire public spectrum. .:Hello?:.

.:HEY THERE!:.

.:Hello! Please, do not shout. I can hear perfectly fine. I just cannot speak at the moment:.

“.:DO You waNT me TO COMM Or taLK?:.”

The barrage of information both audibly and over the comm was something Mirage had never experienced before. The powerful echo bounced around inside his head and physically hurt his processor. His holo face glitched for a fraction of a second. Irritated, he rounded on the squat bot, scolding words at the ready. .:Would you _kindly_ -:.

Spreem's bubbly visor bobbed gently. His field radiated the equivalent of a huge grin.

Mirage realized there was no malice here, only a sincere attempt to communicate. He stuffed his hasty, unwarranted anger down. .:I will communicate via comm and you will speak. Please speak at a normal volume. That is easiest for me:.

“Okay!” The visor bubbled excitedly and Spreem turned back to his giant pot. “Are you here to get lunch?”

.:No. Flatline sent me to do a labor trade:.

“Great!” Spreem pointed to the sink. “You can start with those dishes there.”

Mirage let his distaste for the task creep into a holo sneer. He had, of course, done many more disgusting things. Some even in the very near past! But cleaning chores always felt beneath him in a way he knew he should have gotten over millions of years ago. He gestured to the sink. .:Where is your dishwasher?:.

“You're looking at it!” Spreem laughed.

 _Ah, disappointing._ .:Very well. I must insist on gloves:.

“Heh, okay. Under the sink. Whole pile of 'em!”

Mirage opened the door beneath the massive sink and surveyed the cupboard's contents unhappily. Piles of gloves, many with holes, and all dirty. Strangely, some had four fingers, some had five. Mirage poked around until he found the cleanest, least torn pair, and set to work. 

Spreem stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. He filled the time with stories about his part in the war: he belonged to a wave of soldiers who had been unleashed on a Decepticon outpost. Their infiltration had been chaotic, but successful, and miraculously with almost no loss of Autobot life. He had been rewarded for his efforts with his choice of where to be assigned next. 

“I picked hwVir(ab)b! Have you ever heard of it?”

.:I have not:.

“It's a fleshy world. You know, fleshlings? They pop if ya squeeze 'em? These ones were really cute- all different colors! Some purple, some purplish blue. Really great range on the purples. And really small! Only came partway up my treads.”

.:Yes, isn't it funny how the organic races tend to be so small?:.

“Yeah! I wonder why that is. So, I was on hwVir(ab)b, right, I'd heard they had some kind of thing like energon and I really wanted to try it. Cuz everything I'd ever had with my squad tasted like it had already gone through someone, if you know what I mean. So, I went to hwVir(ab)b to try their fleshling energon. Well, it ain't nothing like energon. It's poisonous! Ha ha, I was so sick.”

Mirage wondered idly how Spreem consumed food. Did the visor pop up? Was there a mouth? Or perhaps an opening directly into his intake from his neck? That was very rare, but hell, who was he to judge someone for having a rare trait? .:Did it taste good, at least?:.

“Yeah, actually. The fleshies cooked it. You know cooking?” Spreem gestured to the kitchen at large, as if he expected Mirage had never seen one before. Mirage nodded emphatically. “Yeah, yeah! Cooking. Really neat. They did all kinds of things to their food, and it was so _neat_. They were so cute. So concerned about how it looked. Should it be crunchy? Soft? What color? Sweet or savory? Lots of different kinds of food, ya know.”

.:I'm familiar with organics' food:.

“Yeah! So I thought, why don't _we_ do that? Cook energon. Shape it into things that look like other things.”

.:But we do. We have many variations of energon. I have eaten beautiful, glowing treats in crystal gardens:.

“Nah, nah,” said Spreem, shaking a finger at Mirage. “I never had that fancy stuff! I came to be in the war. Missed out on all the old Cybertron culture. Rations-only. Maybe filtered engex, if I was lucky.”

.:Ah, I see:. Mirage pondered the garish bot's words. It had never occurred to him that some mechs had gone their entire lives sustained on war-quality food. It was a strange idea, but within that context, Spreem's desire to copy organics' food made sense. .:It is a shame you never experienced the classic cuisine of Cybertron:.

“Yeah! What the hell kinda Primusing fair is that, I ask ya?” 

.:It is, indeed, unfair.:.

“After the war ended I came here to Iacon and Flatline got me this place. Bought all these ovens and things for me. So, now I'm making my _own_ energons. Gonna find the right recipe someday and then everyone will come to my restaurant!”

 _Flatline paid for all this? I wonder why. Surely the cost of an entire kitchen is much greater than the cost of all the low quality meals he is receiving._ Mirage gestured gracefully. .:There were many dishes that I quite enjoyed before the war. I can give you their names. Perhaps there is information in an archive somewhere that you could peruse, and try to recreate them:.

“I ain't really one for reading much,” said Spreem. “But, eh, maybe Flatline'll help me.”

.:I shall make a document for you:.

Spreem's visor glowed. He stirred the pot faster. “That's great! That's really great. Maybe they'll be better than all the squishy-style things I've tried. Do you know what soup is? This is soup.” Spreem raised a ladleful of the boiling liquid up and let it stream back down into the pot. The ladle's edges were scarred and melted.

.:Is it not engex?:.

“Nah. It's a cube that I melted down and mixed with some stabilizers.” Spreem grabbed one of the small containers on the counter and dumped lumps of metal in. “Soup, ya know, it's got a liquidy part, and it's got chunky parts. All the chunks I add in get dissolved though. It's still a work in progress.” He peeked over the lip of the bubbling pot. A stream of liquid trailed down its side and hit the stove top with a sizzle. “Yeah, dissolved. Damn.”

Mirage finished the washing and peeled off the gloves. .:The task is complete. How much is it worth?:.

“Huh? Oh, the labor trade?” Spreem scratched the corner of his visor with a big, blue finger. “Is Flatline having you do shanix or percents?”

Mirage resisted the urge to correct the happy bot's grammar. .:Percents:.

“Huh ok.” Spreem dumped another container into the soup, transformed his treads and feet properly, and made his way over to the sink. He inspected the dishes critically. “You wash like a sparkling! Look at this plate. It's all crusty on the edges.”

Mirage sent a huff over the comm. .:My specialties don't include this type of work:. 

“Yeah, I can tell.”

.:Is that even a plate? I think it is stamped from a garbage can:.

Spreem threw his head back and laughed. “That ain't no garbage can! That's high-end stuff! Didn't you feel how thick that was? And it's pure aluminum, so it's super light? Ha ha! And Flatline said you were a Noble.”

Mirage flashed his eyes. .:I was no such thing:.

Even Spreem could not miss the edge in Mirage's tone. “Eh?”

.:How presumptuous to make that statement! He has no facts about my past:.

“Hey, don't get mad. It was just a joke.” Spreem punched his arm playfully. 

.:Ow!:.

“I'm sure even a not-Noble might not know what aluminum feels like, or doesn't.”

.:I- what?:.

“I just realized I don't know your name! What's your name?”

.:Mirage:. he sent irritably. 

“I'm Spreem!” The visor churned happily as the mech offered his hand.

Spreem radiated gentle good-naturedness in overwhelming amounts. Mirage steadied himself. It was impossible to stay angry at the bot. .:Nice to meet you:. he sent, shaking his hand delicately. Spreem had only four fingers on this hand. Mirage sneaked a glance at the other. Five fingers there. 

“Three percent,” said Spreem.

.:Pardon?:.

“Three percent,” repeated Spreem slowly. “When you go back to Flatline, tell him I said the labor was worth three percent of your debt.”

.:Oh! Thank you:.

“Woulda been five if you had done a good job,” chided Spreem.

.:Hrmm:.

“And woulda been seven if you had realized the dishwasher was _right there_.” Spreem pointed to a cabinet door next to the sink. It was indistinguishable from its neighbors to Mirage. “Cuz then they woulda been even cleaner. Every galley mech knows the dishwasher's always to the left of the sink!”

.:Hmph:. Mirage reflected on the labor trade. _That is quite generous compared to the rate Flatline was using. And much easier work._ Mirage animated a slight smile. .:I shall endeavor to do better in the future:.

“Good!” said Spreem encouragingly.

Mirage departed with the disconcerting feeling that Spreem was the unassuming kind of mech that stumbled into extremely clever territory sometimes.

~~

.:Spreem granted me three percent of the labor loan:. Mirage stood before the consoles in the body shop. He craned his neck to see what Flatline was doing.

Flatline didn't look up from his work. He was polishing something small with a gray cloth. “For what? Sweeping the floor? He's too generous with these things.”

.:Washing dishes:.

“Hmph.” Flatline held up a shiny piece of glass. The sharp edges and chips had been smoothed down, the silvery-white paint on one side retouched. “This is ready. You wanna do this now?”

.:Sure:.

Flatline stood and indicated the curtain. Mirage walked to the med bed and laid down. He felt a little nervous. He withdrew his field.

“There's one thing I've noticed about you so far,” said Flatline, pulling a stool up to the bed. He sat and swiped through menus on one of the light monitors. “Other than all the obvious things, obviously. You never talk about the war.”

.:It's not exactly a pleasant topic:.

“Yeah, but nobody ever doesn't talk about the war. It's basically the default conversation starter. Everyone complains about it all the time. _Everyone_. Even the Camiens who come in ask about it. But you haven't said a word.”

.:I've always been uneasy about the war. I am not sure how the Autobots convinced me to join, to be honest:.

“I _definitely_ know how the Decepticons got me on their side.” Flatline spun the glass piece, inspecting it. The red light from his eyes flashed down its length. “The less said about that, the better.”

.:I'm sure:.

Flatline pulled a stool on wheels closer. He set a tray laden with medical instruments on it. They clinked together. “You want this in your chest, or what?”

.:I would prefer another place:.

“Heh. Too shy to open up for a medic?”

A barb of irritation shot out through Mirage's field. .:You may place it on the inside of my upper right arm:.

“Oh, may I? Open up, then.”

Mirage partially transformed his upper arm open. It unfolded in a complex pattern- far more complex than Flatline expected. He blinked. 

“What's this?” he said, gently tapping an extra layer of metal on the inside of Mirage's arm. “Why do you have this?”

.:It's part of my original frame. I've kept some plating from my limbs. They stay hidden on the inside:.

“Ahh,” said Flatline. “No wonder you weigh more than you look like you should.”

.:Yes, the extra weight does tend to surprise people. Not many are allowed the opportunity to learn why:.

“Well. Aren't I special.” Flatline wiped a swath of the metal with antiseptic. 

.:No, not there. Here:.

A holo red X flashed over another part of the plating. Flatline arched an orbital ridge. “Okay.” He wiped the area down. “Why there?”

.:You cannot see them, but there are etchings hidden in that plating. I want the glass next to a particular word:.

“What word?”

Mirage fidgeted. The art of conversation had never been one of his strengths and recently it was a downright chore. Discomfort seeped through his field. .:“Touch”:.

Flatline's finials swung out. “That's, uh. That's kinda... weird. That was etched into your old frame?”

.:It's not Neocybex. It's an old word with a specific connotation. In the original sense, it meant a loving touch, as from Primus himself. The holy touch that burns away the pain and darkness of the past and promises a new light. I have re-contextualized the word for myself to be, shall we say, non-religious:.

“Uh. Okay.” Flatline pushed a button on the bed until he could smell melting metal. He took one of the many tubes and flicked its end. “Didn't have you pegged as a religious bot.”

Mirage's field twisted unhappily. .:I am not:.

One of the monitors beeped quietly and Flatline noted the stress response. “Okay. Yeah. The vibe's getting weird. Let's switch topics.” Flatline dispensed a dollop of liquid metal onto Mirage's plating and pressed the glass piece into it. “You can transform your arm back as soon as it stops feeling warm to you.”

.:Alright. Thank you:.

“No problem.” Flatline made a few notes on one of the monitors. “ _You_ pick something to discuss. By the way, you can drop the holo face. No use spending the energy to project it. And I want to take some measurements.”

Mirage let the hologram fade out. His eyes were a steady golden light in the darkness of his helm. _An open invitation to discuss a topic of my choice! Most excellent,_ he thought. _I'm most curious as to who his client is, but I can't ask that directly, of course. Shall we ease in with a mutual acquaintance, perhaps? Flatline will feel more comfortable and perhaps reveal more than intended._ .:How did you and Hot Spot become acquainted?:.

“Hot Spot?” Flatline opened one of his fingertips and placed a medical instrument inside. His plating closed around it. He bent his finger, testing the tool's stability. “After I left the Decepticons, I wandered around for a while. Heard about Iacon being rebuilt. Made my way here. While trying to convince the Autobots I wasn't a Decepticon anymore, Hot Spot personally vouched for me. So, I never got locked up or chipped or anything, like the others. Though it probably helped that I also didn't have my insignia.”

.:He personally vouched for you?:. 

“Yeah! No one was more surprised than me. I had never met the guy before. I confronted him after, asked him what it was all about. Nobody does that kinda thing without wanting something in return. He said he had assembled a group of mechs that were gonna raise a hospital and he wanted my help. I'm big for a medic, you see.” He flexed, mocking the way big armored vehicle mechs liked to show off. “They saw me as a bonus- I could help build the hospital and then staff it after.”

.:You're not in a hospital, though:.

“Nah. Found out I don't like them very much. I prefer to have my own place. Do my own thing. Body work is my passion. I told them I wanted to leave, and they let me, under a few conditions. The med side of this shop is a 'satellite clinic,' partially sponsored by the hospital. Which in turn is subsidized by the Iaconian government. Which in a roundabout way makes me a government employee. Hah! Ridiculous.” Flatline studied his hand, each fingertip modded with its own tool. “Not my ideal, but better than any set up I thought I'd get when I first landed on Cybertron and Ironhide put his gun between my eyes.”

.:Ugh, Ironhide. I don't envy you that encounter. I have also had altercations with him in the past:. Mirage processed Flatline's words. It was a lot to take in, a lot of little threads he could pull at. And government connections meant data trails he could follow. If Hot Spot had been one of the founders of the hospital, he might as well start there. He wondered why the medic had offered this information up so freely. .:Hot Spot mentioned you spent a lot of time together:.

“Well, sure. This is Iacon. Every other week we've got some ludicrous thing going on. Diseases sweeping through, titans and combiners stomping all over the place. Immigrants arriving with their own troubles. Lots to do, lots to do.”

.:Did you miss him when he left on the _Lost Light?_ :.

“Miss... him?” One finial swung back. “No? I mean, he's a good guy. But he's not on my top ten list of mechs I think about every day. I wished him luck. Said we'd keep in touch. We do. That's it.”

.:Ah, yes, lists. You Decepticons love your lists:.

“ _Former_ Decepticon,” said Flatline. “I swear if you don't get that right I'm gonna laser 'Flatline is a former Decepticon' on the inside of your new face and you'll have to look at it every waking moment for the rest of your life.”

Mirage laughed. It showed in a very slight shaking of his frame and in the fringes of his field.

Flatline's finials swung forward. “Is that a laugh? Thank Primus, the mech laughs every once in a while.”

.:So it was a joke?:.

“Mostly.” The finials bounced a bit. “Seriously though, there's a good reason for why I left. You don't know that reason, but a modicum of respect for my decision would be appreciated.”

 _Interesting, a Decepticon asking for respect. This is a topic of importance for Flatline. Something to push._ .:I'll consider it:.

“Hrm. I suppose that's the best I'll get out of you, _tiny, small Autobot_.”

A bit of mirth ran through Mirage's field again. .:Why are diminutives your insult of choice?:.

Flatline tilted Mirage's helm and gently touched its inside surfaces. “Not _my_ insult of choice. That is the Decepticon way. Don't you see? Those that are small are weak.” 

Mirage shuddered. The feeling of the tools scraping the inside of his head was bizarre and invasive. .:Ah. You know, in battle, they didn't call us that:.

“They didn't? That's the impression I got...”

.:It was more mindless screaming and expletives. You were never in battle during the war?:.

“Not really. Not like what you saw, I'm sure.” 

.:Size insults tended to occur in one-on-one situations. As you're doing now, I suppose. Your Decepticon instincts are kicking in:.

“ _Instincts?!_ ” Flatline's biolights brightened. The missiles on his back shifted. His field roiled with offense/anger. His voice dropped to a low growl. “I asked for only a _modicum_.” His field settled on Mirage's plating like a knife.

Mirage shivered. The medic's mood had changed so suddenly, he hadn't been able to brace himself against his field. .: _Former_ Decepticon instincts, of course:.

Flatline's eyes flashed. “ _Instincts._ The implication being that I am, at the core, Decepticon, and unable to overcome it. Offensive for reasons I don't think you could even _begin_ to imagine.” He wiggled his fingers inside his patient's open helm. “I told you multiple times I am not a Decepticon, yet you continue to address me as such. Mirage, I'm curious. Why are you insulting the one person who can help you?” The tools in his fingertips loomed huge in Mirage's vision. This close up, they looked like mnemosurgeon's needles. Mirage pushed himself into the bed. It pushed back. “You're in such a _delicate_ position at the moment.”

.:I thought we were having a friendly trade of insults!:.

There was another long moment, and the knife edge of Flatline's field receded. He pulled his hand out of Mirage's helm. “We have both learned something very important just now.”

 _We sure did._ .:What would that be?:.

“Firstly, I learned that you're not clever enough to pick up on clues indicating insults for truly friendly banter. Or you're stupid brave. Which is just shorthand for 'full of enough self loathing to not care what happens' to you. Secondly, _you_ learned there's only one thing I don't want to joke about. And that's, to make it perfectly clear, the fact that I am _no longer a Decepticon_.”

.:Or I could be assured that you are a medic of such quality and connections as to not murder me over an insult? Especially given that my allies know exactly where I am and whose care I am under?:.

Flatline's finials inched forward. “Okay, you're slightly smarter than you look.”

.:A more generous compliment I have never before received:.

“That's more like it. But have I made myself clear?”

Flatline's reaction had been an _over_ reaction, an extreme display- not only of truthfulness, but of hurt and anger. The edge of his field meant there was absolutely no mistaking that he was serious about his convictions. He had been deeply insulted by Mirage's words. For the first time, Mirage entertained the idea that the Decepticons had done something immensely painful to the medic. After all, that's what drove people to reject the groups they had once been in. He would know. .:Crystal clear:.

“Good.”

But just because Flatline didn't call himself a Decepticon didn't mean he didn't act like one. .:You will forgive me, though, when I note with great confusion that you were content to send me to mutilate bodies in mortuaries, yet reject the label of the people that no doubt have driven you to do so:.

Flatline growled. 

.:What am I to do with this contradiction?:.

“Accept it,” spat Flatline. “That's what I've had to do.” His field pulsed with anger again. Mirage pulled his own field in tight and held very still. Flatline took a deep breath. And then another. “I hope you can appreciate the amount of _energy_ it takes to try to understand this situation from your point of view. Though it deeply pains me to say it, I suppose I can't blame you for digging around in what, I'm sure, looks like a complicated and tantalizing mystery. Asking about Hot Spot? About how I got here? You nosy _little spy_.”

.:Atom-sized spy. Quark-sized spy:.

“Pfah. Yes.” Flatline flashed his biolights, a deliberate action to help flush anger from his system. “Using humor as a distraction. Good. Someone must have taught you that.”

.:I learned from the best:.

“Nevertheless, it is a _private_ matter.” Flatline stretched his arms and shook them. “You really got under my plating, just now. First Aid warned me about you.”

.:I did not expect the _passion_ of your reaction. But I was confident you would not actually murder me:.

Flatline grunted.

.:I owe you too much money:.

“Hah. Yeah, that's true. You've got debt armor.” Flatline ran his un-tooled hand across his face. “I guess now I know why you never talk about the war.”

.:Nothing good ever comes from it:.

The rest of the procedure was done in silence.

When he finished, Flatline turned away from the med bed without a word and went to his consoles. Mirage remained in the patient alcove, quiet, pondering. He comm'd First Aid with an update on his agreement with Flatline and an overview of the day. First Aid was distracted, but supportive. Some of the other Protectobots shouted “HI!” at him through First Aid's comm. First Aid batted them away and Mirage smiled inwardly.

At nightfall, Flatline pushed the curtain aside. He reset his vocalizer and reached into one of the lower cabinets in the patient alcove. He pulled out a blanket and handed it to Mirage. “Done for the day. What a long one it was. You'll sleep here. I live in the rooms above the shop. I do some regular maintenance before sleeping every night, which includes transforming. You may hear sounds associated with that upstairs. Nothing to worry about.”

 _In other words, don't come investigating,_ thought Mirage.

“Good night.” 

.:Good night:.

Flatline pushed past the curtain and out of sight. Mirage waited for the heavy footsteps to finish ascending the staircase, then slipped invisibly after. He went slowly, testing each step for creaks. There was a short hallway at the top of the stairs with three doors. He already knew one of the doors led to the washroom. After a quick investigation, he discovered the others led to an office of sorts and Flatline's bedroom. He peeked around the door frame.

The medic was balancing on a stool, which was missing a leg, before a mirrored vanity covered in maintenance kits. He was muttering to himself, words soft enough that Mirage couldn't make them out. He partially transformed his left hand, stuck various instruments and lubricants into the seams and joints, and retransformed it. He repeated the procedure on his other hand, then his knees and his feet. 

It was all very routine and normal, aside from the occasional muttering. Mirage waited. He had infinite patience to draw from, an artesian well fed by millions of years of spying. 

Suddenly, the medic's face tilted and his eyes brightened. Mirage gripped the door, questioning himself. His hands were still invisible.

“First Aid?”

It took Mirage a second to realize that Flatline was answering a comm call.

“Yes, he's stable.” Pause. “No.” Pause. “Yes, damn pain in my ass that he is.” There was a long pause. Flatline's finials went down. “I told you before, I'm not a psychiatrist!” Pause. “Why-” Pause. “Ugh, fine. I'll see what I can do.” Pause. “Yes... Oh, really? Well, that can't be good, can it? Damn pointyass purple bastard. No, I never worked for him. But he's got a reputation.” Pause. “Least it's not the you-know-who. Thanks for the warning. Bye.”

Flatline took a deep breath and shook his head. Then he stood and went through a series of stretches. He turned so he faced pointedly away from both the mirror and the door. Mirage could only see his back. He heard the small sound of a partial body transformation and blue spark light shimmered on the wall. Mirage frowned inwardly- now his spying had ventured into the realm of true voyeurism.

Flatline made a noise, like a choking sob, and his muttering came faster. He didn't rumble now, but rather his voice had a ringing tone, like a tarnished bell weakly rung in the dead of night. Anguish reverberated in the faint spark light.

Mirage turned. He didn't want to see or hear this. Whatever it was, it was deeply personal and none of his concern. The wretched sound – and especially that spark light- felt almost shameful to behold. 

_How dare he mourn in the privacy of his own abode_ , thought Mirage wryly. _It is bizarre to bare one's spark to no one, though. Maybe it's a Decepticon thing. Er. Former Decepticon thing._

Mirage pushed away his wandering thoughts on the matter- had Flatline lost someone in the war? Well, who hadn't- and retreated to the hospital bed that was his berth. Lying down in the darkness, in the warmth of the scratchy medical blanket, with just the hum of nearby lab equipment, Mirage could hear nothing of what happened on the floor above. He pulled the blanket over his head and slipped into recharge.

~

The familiar, cozy apartment was dark. Its atmosphere slowly churned with a presence that heated Mirage's lines. He followed the warmth to the living space. A mech was there, lounging under the window in shadow, his long legs stretched out casually. There were small crystals and energon treats on the floor beside him. His biolights and eyes were a beautiful reddish purple that sent Mirage's spark spinning. City light from outside played across his dark helm. His field was _powerful_. Hot and thick, it thrummed, twisting and twining around itself, filling the room.

The mech beckoned. He had a wicked grin. Mirage walked forward as if in a trance. Once close, the mech grabbed Mirage's hands and pulled him closer. The mech tilted his head. 

_Do you like it?_

The words were not spoken, not comm'd, not audible. But they were in the mech's field, the curve of his lips, the lingering of his thumb across Mirage's knuckles.

Mirage looked at him curiously, then noticed that, at this angle, the arch of golden lights in the city below appeared behind the mech's head like a halo or a crown. 

_Do you like it?_

_Oh, yes._

Mirage stroked the mech's dark helm. The mech purred, a sound like several engines shifting in and out of audible focus. He traced his fingertips up the seams of Mirage's thighs, drawing soft gasps. He curled his fingers around Mirage's pelvic plates and pulled them within a breath's distance. Mirage's lines pounded with heat. The mech licked his lips...


	7. Someone Truly Special

Mirage woke with a start. Someone loud was talking. He moaned inwardly. By the feel of his body and the ache in his processor, it was quite early in the morning. The patient alcove was dark with a hint of light filtering in through the curtain. As his senses slowly woke, the sounds distilled into words.

“-got a new data pad of Earth stuff. Let's play a guessing game!” This was Spreem's voice.

Flatline responded with his mouth full, “I don't want to.”

“C'mon, it'll be fun! I'll say a thing and you gotta guess what it means.” 

Spreem garbled words. They were not in Neocybex.

“What?” Flatline sounded unamused.

“To place a singular, manual-digit upon the subject in question,” repeated Spreem.

_I know that one,_ thought Mirage. He comm'd Flatline. .: _Put your finger on it_. That's an English idiom. It describes a situation wherein you know something is out of place, but you cannot determine what that thing is. Idioms tend not to translate well to Neocybex:.

He received staticky, begrudging gratitude over the comm.

“I'll put my finger on something,” said Flatline.

“When did you go to Earth, Flatline?” asked Spreem. “Noooo! Don't take my data pad!” 

“I've never been to Earth.” Flatline's voice was strained.

“Either have I! But it's funnnn- aww, c'mon. Give it back!”

There came the sounds of a light tussle. 

Spreem bellowed. “Haaa! Got it!”

“Go on,” said Flatline. “Get outta here. I have work to do.”

“Okayyy...”

Mirage waited until Spreem's heavy footsteps had faded, then he parted the curtain. Flatline was just putting his mask back on.

.:Lover's quarrel?:.

“ _Please,_ ” Flatline's field flashed with annoyance. He threw his plate to its usual place. “I hate those damn alien games he always wants to play.”

Mirage went to the refrigerated cabinet and helped himself to a drink. .:Earth games are easy:.

“Only if you've been there!”

.:Do you really hate them or are you a sore loser?:.

Flatline's missiles rustled. “ _Good morning_ to you, too.” 

_Should I say something about yesterday?_ thought Mirage. _What should I say? He's not saying anything..._ The medic was typing at a keyboard, distracted. _It is like the other morning. The unsavory tone of the previous night is quickly dismissed in favor of moving on. He is an uncharacteristically forgiving type..._

“The preliminary scan of your face is in. I don't think you want to see it, though.”

All thoughts regarding yesterday's conversation were instantly forgotten. .:I do want to see it!:.

“Don't say I didn't warn you.” Flatline turned a light monitor towards Mirage.

It displayed a 3D wireframe of Mirage's face. His expression was _ghastly_ , a mixture of surprise, pain, and fear. A piece of his face- the front right jaw, was missing. It was the same shape as the piece in Mirage's arm.

.:Oh:. Mirage's hand flew to his holo face.

“That's the expression you made on impact,” said Flatline. “The shattering of the glass killed the tissue. It froze in that position.”

.:Oh my:. Mirage pulled his field in. .:I do not recall the exact moment of impact, but it must have been horrific:.

“Yeah,” said Flatline, his finials going down slowly. “Yeah.”

.:I was experiencing a severe episode. My protective subroutines did not predict and avoid the impact:. Sadness seeped from Mirage's field. .:Please understand that I survived all of the time before and during the war without such an injury:.

“Understood,” said Flatline, nodding. “It sounds to me,” he continued slowly, “like you need to address the underlying causes of your episodes, or it won't matter if you have a new face. It'll get broken again.”

.:I'm trying:. Mirage emanated a feeling of defeat. 

“It's-”

The door opened. Flatline darted forward and hit a button. The monitor displaying Mirage's face went blank.

“Hello?”

Flatline and Mirage turned. Flashflux stood there, tall and proud, one hand on her hip, her wings drawn in from her entrance through the door. Her biolights were bright and pulsed with a pattern unfamiliar to Mirage.

Flatline stood. “Good morning.” 

Mirage gave a graceful bow.

“Hi. I went next door to labor trade with your friend but he threw a grenade at me.” Flashflux's field was loud with irritation. 

Flatline chuckled. “He is not, shall we say, a morning mech. How are you feeling?”

Flashflux spread her wings and smiled. “Doing great, doctor.”

“Very glad to hear. Would you permit me to do a quick scan?”

“Certainly.”

Mirage retreated to the patient alcove and pulled the curtain shut while Flatline arranged his monitors around Flashflux. He dropped his holo face, fit in the adaptor, and poured the drink directly down his intake. It was cold when it hit his tanks. He shivered.

He listened to Flatline and Flashflux. 

“How did you feel when you woke up?” asked Flatline.

“Refreshed! Quite good. The pain was gone.”

“No anger or fatigue? No lingering feelings of madness and despair?”

Flashflux laughed. “Certainly not! All the pain is gone, doctor. We've been using the filter you gave us.”

“Excellent, excellent. You Camiens _are_ a puzzle...”

It was a quick scan, overall. Flatline seizing the opportunity to add yet more data to his database. Mirage had mixed feelings about such a thing. Decepticons tended to twist data to their own devices, rather than use it ethically. He did not imagine former Decepticons would do much differently.

Ultimately, the Camien population would be the ones to benefit from Flashflux's addition. Or not.

When the scans were finished, Flatline directed Flashflux to Spreem's. After the door sounded her exit, he pulled back the curtain. “You hiding in here?”

Mirage flicked his face on. .:I wanted to refuel without prompting questions:.

Flatline nodded. 

.:Will there be more house calls today?:.

“No. You can labor trade with me on some reconstruction work I have to do for a client. Or you can go next door. Spreem and Quickmix both have lots of projects.” 

Mirage kept his distaste to himself. He did not savor the idea of doing more cleaning, and the prospect of being in proximity to Quickmix was downright offensive. He pushed himself off the bed and followed Flatline to the main room. .:I told Spreem I would do some research for him. About Cybertronian cuisine:.

Flatline's finials swung up. “Something edible?!”

.:Yes, assuming he can find the ingredients:.

Flatline gave two thumbs up.

.:Would time spent on such a pursuit, perhaps, be worth labor trade?:.

Flatline's eyes dimmed. “Let's see what you pull up.”

.:May I use one of your light monitors?:.

“Hrmm...” Flatline pulled one from the air and tapped at it for a while. Finally, he handed it over. “Here. It's been connected to public subspace.”

_And disconnected from the body shop's databases,_ Mirage finished inwardly. .:Thank you:. He sat with his back to the entrance door and let his holo face fade. He did not want to waste energy displaying it, but if someone entered, he would have enough time to flick it back on. A cursory manipulation of the monitor revealed his suspicions were right. It had been stripped down to a few accessory programs. He accessed a note taking program and local subspace. .:Spreem mentioned you had purchased his kitchen equipment for him:.

Flatline grunted.

.:Why?:.

Flatline grunted again. 

.:Such eloquence:.

“ _Some_ one around here might as well have their dreams come true,” said Flatline. “A client of mine paid for a high-end procedure in kitchen equipment. I gave it to Spreem.”

.:What a lucky coincidence. For Spreem. Someone paying in kitchen equipment:.

“Yes,” said Flatline firmly.

.:Did they _really_ have no money to pay for th-:.

“You gonna dig at nothing or are you gonna find Spreem something worth using all those ovens on?”

.:Hmph:. Mirage tilted his empty helm up. Then down again, as he set to work making a list of the names of all the dishes he could remember.

Flatline busied himself with a large 3D hologram. It rotated in space. Mirage glanced at it every once in a while. The shape was interesting- long and rounded. Not quite a wing, not quite anything that would fit a grounder.

Flatline caught him watching. He highlighted the top of the curious shape. “I have a triple changer client whose boat floor becomes their top wing surface. Do you know anything about boat floors, Mirage?”

.:No:.

“They're a travesty to the Bernoulli principle.” Flatline manipulated the 3D image. It displayed specifications Mirage was unfamiliar with. “I've been wracking my processor trying to find a solution, but your little arm trick from yesterday gave me an idea.”

Mirage glanced at his own upper arm. .:It did?:.

“Yeah. Good boat floors are patterned, anti-slip. Good wing surfaces are smooth as polysilk. The current surface on this panel will work for a good boat but not a good flier.”

.:I see:.

“So, the client came to me to see what I can do about it.”

.:An overhaul of the transformation process being far too invasive?:.

“Oh yeah. They don't want to swap the floor/wing out for something else. The rest of the transformation is seamless, and messing with that kind of thing always causes a cascade of problems. I just need to find a surface texture that will work for both modes. _Or_ , I can propose your configuration. Doubling up panels back to back has always been around, but your solution was the most elegant I've seen to the joint construction problems inherent to it.”

.:Adding an extra layer of paneling will make them heavier:.

“True.” Flatline began modeling a copy of Mirage's upper arm in the program. “I will have to ask them how they feel about that.”

They worked for a few hours, the silence broken up by occasional calls Flatline received. Mirage found that researching gave him a curious blend of feelings. Seeing images of the treats and meals he had once enjoyed delighted him, for they had been delicious. But they also made him a little sad, for they represented a time before conflict had scarred his life and the lives of all those he knew.

_I hope Spreem will be able to recreate the recipes. Some of the ingredients were rare in my day. Who knows if they are still around now._

“How's it going?” asked Flatline.

.:Slowly. I have a few recipes. I am uncertain Spreem will be able to obtain the crystals used, though. Does Iacon have a crystal garden?:.

“Not as far as I know,” said Flatline. “But if you get the elemental breakdown of the crystals, Quickmix can synthesize them.”

.:Oh! I did not realize. That is promising:.

“Yeah. It's what I keep him around for.” Flatline's finials swung forward, a big grin. “Can hardly stand the bastard for more than five minutes, but goddamn is he good at his job. Better than anyone I knew on _The Irradion_.”

.:The what?:.

“Oh.” Flatline's finials swung out in a new expression. Sheepish, perhaps? “That was the space station I was stationed on for most of the war.”

.:Ah:.

“Had a lot of, shall we say, material specialists on board. But Quickmix can outdo them all.”

.:Hrmm. I suppose I feel slightly better about my face, then:.

Flatline nodded. “Don't tell him this, but I'd trust him with my own spark casing.”

.:Really!:. _What a fascinating statement..._

“The literal metal. Not the emotional implications.”

They both cringed at that thought.

Flatline leaned back in his chair. “Modeling stuff is so boring,” he said. “It's much more fun getting your hands dirty. Help me pass the time, Mirage, and I'll make those recipes worth a labor trade for sure. I know you hate talking about the war. But, let's try a new approach. Something positive. Did you ever have anyone special? I've been informed many mechs like talking about that subject.”

_**Wow,**_ thought Mirage. _That was the **least subtle inquiry** I have ever heard. Who's digging into whose past now?_ He recalled Flatline's comm to First Aid the previous night about being a psychiatrist. Or not being one, as it were. _I suppose it wouldn't hurt to tell him... what little I recall, anyway. Sharing with First Aid occasionally relieved some of my discomfort. Perhaps I will remember things more clearly if I talk about them with someone new. These recent dreams have been awfully... interesting._

Mirage straightened in his chair. .: _During_ the war? Some diversions, some delights. But someone truly special to me? No. _Before_ the war, yes:.

“Who?”

.:I haven't shared this with many:.

“Humor me.”

Mirage told him. Flatline's finials fell flat out to the sides. His eyes dimmed like his processor had gone blank. The hovering 3D wing/floor component above him stopped spinning.

“Skywarp,” he repeated.

.:Yes:.

“ _Skywarp_.”

.:Yes:.

“ _Skywarp_. Warping-through-the-walls Skywarp. Aft-of-the-Decepticons Skywarp. With _you_.”

There was an irritated pause, then, .:yes:.

“But... _Skywarp?_ ”

.:Are you, perchance, malfunctioning?:.

“Hah!” Flatline's finials swung in a complicated pattern. “No, I don't think it is I, who is malfunctioning.” He restarted the modeling program. “That answer was really outta nowhere. I know we're not close friends or anything, but I consider myself a fair judge of character. He doesn't seem like your type.”

.:What do you mean by that?:.

“He's... he's Skywarp, for Primus's sake! He hasn't got an ounce of class. Hell, he might not even have half a _brain_. He's a total idiot with an _extreme_ anger problem. Did you know he once warped into an active engine? On a space station? Where _obviously_ the engine had to be active because the station was moving in stable orbit and all systems were functional?”

Mirage's body shook ever so slightly with gentle laughter. .:He wasn't an idiot at all. That you think that of him, proves his mastery of the deceptive arts. He was skilled at hiding his true intentions and manipulations:.

Flatline's field pulsed with disbelief. “Really. _Skywarp_. A master of the deceptive arts. Explain the engine thing, then, cuz I spent three damn days putting him back in working order.”

.:Was it a regular engine? Did it have any warping capabilities?:.

Flatline side-eyed him. “Actually... it was a prototype quantum engine. Didn't work very well. And worked even worse after we dug Skywarp out of it.”

.:I suspect he was trying to use it to enhance his warping capabilities in some fashion:.

“Then you've reinforced my point here. He's a maker of terrible decisions. Who the hell thinks, 'jump into an active quantum engine?! That's a great idea!!' So why would you...?”

.:Why would I what?:.

Flatline scoffed. “Why would you want to be with a lughead like that? He was always stomping around. My god, you should've seen him when he first arrived on the station! Blitzed out of his brain with anger. It took five mechs to hold him down long enough for me to calm him. I'm not even emotionally invested in this conversation and it's making me agitated.” The tiny plates in his sides flicked out and in. “You're so different from him. What's the appeal there? What could someone like that possibly offer you? I can tell you had a good life, before the war.”

.:Oh, can you?:.

“Yeah. Your accent. Your body language. Your posture. You've got money written all over you, Noble. Maybe even _in_ you.” He pointed to his own upper arm.

.:Mechs are so very _quick_ to assume that:. The comm had an edge to it.

Flatline blinked. “Is it an inaccurate assessment?”

.:Quite:.

“In what way?”

Mirage shifted uncomfortably. .:Are you truly interested, or is this a passing lark to you? It is a serious matter for me, and one I have shared with very few:.

Flatline shrugged. Then he paused, as if reaching into his memory banks for something. “Dammit, First Aid,” he muttered. “No... no, larks. I think it'd be important for me to hear this. Go on.”

.:You are certain? I do not care to be mocked for a situation in which I was bound and choiceless:.

“I'll be good,” Flatline promised. He started up a note-taking program and grabbed a stylus.

Mirage took a deep breath and set his monitor aside. It floated next to him, casting a soft light. He folded his hands neatly in his lap. :I was forged in the Thundering Crystal Caverns, as your equipment determined. The moment the caretakers realized I was a glass-faced mech, The Order of the Will of Primus snapped me up. Have you ever heard that name before?:.

Flatline raised an orbital arch. “No.”

.:They were a disgrace masquerading as religion, appealing to the richest of the rich in that insular way that cults do. They had a lot of beliefs that, I learned painfully in retrospect, stem in the bizarre. They believed that those whom we call outliers were special mechs blessed by Primus. Most peculiarly, they believed that glass-faced mechs could reveal the Will of Primus:.

“What?! Pff.”

.:The High Priest, the founder of The Order, Emīror, scoured hot spots for those like me. But he only ever found two, of whom I was clearly the superior. So sacred was my connection to Primus that I was addressed with no name. I had many antonyms, including The Mirror of Primus, The Window to His Will, and so forth. It was believed that the Will of Primus could be read in the colorful patterns that appeared in my glass face when I-:. Mirage paused. A small shudder of disgust ran through his body. .:-was made to overload:.

“So...” said Flatline slowly. “Your first frag was some old priest?”

.:Yes:.

“Ugh.”

.:That is an appropriate response:.

“I'm... I'm sorry.”

.:As am I. And as Emīror fancied himself one among the high classes, and I was The Mirror of Primus, I was educated and trained in the traditional ways- I learned the classical languages and the arts. Proper posture, as you indicated, and so forth, were instilled in me nearly from the moment of being forged. Rich mechs seeking the Will of Primus paid for my presence and my _performance-_ :. Mirage's comm dissolved into static for a moment. His field radiated strain, then receded. .:Pardon for the outburst. My presence and my performance with the High Priest. Thus, I attended the theater, museums, places of such status, to both partake as a patron and to bless. I was given the best seats and the best treatment. I quite enjoyed those things. So, yes, I have this accent. And I have never found another to adopt that felt suiting:.

“So... you _did_ have a rich life, though. Richer than most others.”

Exasperation flashed through Mirage's field. .:I suppose, in terms of material luxury. But I was simultaneously lauded for my supposed divine connection, and punished for my mortal failures. _Many_ things were kept from me, things you would not _imagine_ needed to be taught, but that I discovered much later. And The Order became, of course, corrupt. That is why I left:. 

Flatline stared at his 3D model of Mirage's upper arm in silence for a while. He started to speak a few times, but cut himself off. Then, with a frantic burst of typing, mathematical formulas and epithelial diagrams appeared on the light monitors. Flatline reset his vocalizer and said, “interference patterns in the glass?”

.:What?:.

“The... charge, from overload. It ripples through metal quickly, but when it hits a glass face, embedded as it is with its countless little sensors and vessels, it would slow down and appear as a kaleidoscopic pattern of colors...”

The response was bitter. .:I suppose. I've never seen it, myself:.

“Damn. What a _weird_ thing to build a religion around. Skywarp's an outlier. Was he in the cult, too?”

.:No, no. I met him after I escaped:.

“How did you escape?”

.:That is a story that is quite draining to tell. I do not mind sharing with you, provided you are respectful, for it is a painful story. But I would prefer to do it another day:. Mirage rubbed the sides of his helm. .:Even thinking about The Order makes my processor ache:. Flatline nodded, jotting furious notes on the things Mirage had said. 

Flatline had scaled his field-sensitivity up: detecting the very, very subtle changes that Mirage's field underwent while he spoke made it much easier to understand the context of his comms. Flatline hadn't realized just how much emotion a face helped convey during information exchange. Even a masked, visored mech's face had eye flashes and mask twitches and other such indicators of mood.

Thus, he almost jumped when a smile flitted through Mirage's field at regular intensity. It hit him like a train.

.:Did you know that Skywarp had a different body before the war?:.

Flatline pushed the echoing emotion away and dialed his field-sensitivity back down. “I did not know. And if you had asked me that during the war, I would've said I also did not care. I also do not care right now.”

Flatline actually _did_ jump as Skywarp appeared in the room. “What the-!” His missiles whirred and primed instinctively. Then his processor worked through the fact that, yes, although Skywarp _could_ appear suddenly, his arrival was always preceded by a flash of light. And this Skywarp looked _old_.

“Now _that_ is a fossil of a frame,” said Flatline, powering his weapons down. “I haven't seen a rounded helmet like that in ages! And perpendicularly-mounted wings?! Hah!”

The hologram Skywarp flicked its wings and frowned.

.:One should not judge so harshly, the form another is given when they come to be!:. scolded Mirage. .:I found him quite handsome, you know. He might come to you one day to be reset:.

“Doubt it. He's been rocking the Starscream model for so long. He's never said a single word about this old frame. Not that we talked much. Are you _sure_ his pelvic plating was that big?”

.:You would question my holographic abilities?:.

“I'm not questioning your holographic _abilities_ ,” said Flatline. “Rather your role as an unbiased observer-projector.”

.:You are implying some exaggeration on my part?:.

“Glitch, I might be.”

Mirage's body shook gently with laughter. .:Such crudeness! Somehow hilarious to me:.

“Hah, probably leftovers from things Skywarp said.”

.:Yes, indeed:. A little bit of mirth rang through his field and then gently receded. 

Flatline took careful note of that while watching the monitors hovering around them. Mirage's vitals and mood were remarkably better when he spoke of his old companion- the vitals even more stable than when he had sat still for hours for his baseline measurements. Skywarp was a subject worth pursuing. “Alright, you've convinced me,” Flatline continued smoothly. “You two were made for each other.” 

.:Oh?:.

“Both hiding so much of yourselves from everyone else. Skywarp apparently a brilliant, manipulative tactician this whole time, and you... I've mentioned it before, but you keep your field so tightly wound, it's like you're not even there. It's like noticing the person next to you isn't breathing. There's something normal missing, and it takes a while to _put your finger on it,_ but when you figure it out, you notice it every time. You're like a ghost.”

.:Reeling in my field was necessary for my role in the war:. 

“You're so good at it, though. Keeping up a wartime practice that takes so much energy and control, even after the war is over? I think you prefer to hide it.”

::It's ingrained in me. I was a spy. You picked up on that:.

“Yes, the comm frequency was a big clue. And the general, you know, invisibility thing.” Flatline tapped the monitor, highlighting different parts of the 3D model. “Primus, with the invisibility and the no-field thing, you'd be a... _great_ spy.”

.:I'm pleased you followed the logic there:.

“It struck me just now, I mean. That's an outlier-level tier of ability. I'm glad you never were aboard my station.”

.:As far as you know:.

“Ha ha,” Flatline said sarcastically. “All I'm saying is, you're taking the time and working off the money to get a new face. This indicates to me that you don't _want_ to have to project all the time. Part of you wants to blend in with the masses. If you wanna blend in a little _better_ , you gotta let your field out a bit. Just breathe, mech.”

.:It's not always so simple:.

“Yeah, I know nothing is. But if field repression is truly only a function of the war, and nothing else, it's time to move on. The war's over.” Flatline tilted the 3D render. A series of patterns appeared across it. “Speaking of which, what did you and Skywarp do during the war?”

.:What do you mean?:.

“Er,” Flatline raised an orbital arch. “If you cared about him so much, didn't it bother you that he was a Decepticon? Did you two ever fight in battle?”

Mirage's holo face flashed on with a burst of static. .:The war... I don't... like...:. The comm ended in distortion. His field pulsed with pain. He slid out of his chair and slumped to the floor, helm dark.

“Whoa!” Flatline rushed over and scooped Mirage up. He carried him to the med bed, snatched several of its stat readers and plugged them in. Flatline scoured the data pouring down the monitors. “What the...”

When Mirage finally rebooted, Flatline said, “what do you remember of our conversation just now?”

.:Not much:. Fatigue washed through Mirage's field. .:I think you asked me about the war:.

“I did,” said Flatline. “We've stumbled on some kind of compartmentalization. Hmm. _Really_ weird.”

.:I don't feel well. I don't like talking about the war:.

“Yeah. Huh.” Flatline tapped a monitor and read through scan results. His finials slowly went down. “You're _physically_ fine, but you've just exhibited some interesting symptoms. Nothing happened to your frame, but you _feel_ bad.”

Mirage sent a wordless questioning though his field.

“Let me, ah, think about this for a bit,” said Flatline. “I don't like what I'm seeing, but I don't wanna jump to conclusions. I'll get back to you.”

.:Very well. May I rest here? I do not wish to get up:.

“Sure. I'll send your research over to Spreem.”

.:Thank you:. Mirage's biolights dimmed as he slipped into recharge.

Flatline pulled the curtain shut and returned to the cluster of light monitors. He looked over Mirage's research. He spent a while rewriting the sentences with simpler grammar and words, inserting pictures where he could. He compiled a list of ingredients to investigate and sent it to Quickmix. Then he got a glass of the strongest engex he had and drained it down.

~~

The cozy room was filled with their fields, intertwined, as always. Mirage sat with his back against the window, warming in the morning sun. Across the small table from him was Skywarp. His platter was riddled with crumbs. Mirage's cube was untouched. 

“But you have so much potential-”

“I know that,” said Skywarp. “But the Academy's had thousands of years to help me and never did anything! Nothing but scan me and probe me- even my spark chamber! I'm so ready to get out, Mirage. I need this!”

Mirage pushed his uneaten cube away. “I know every seam of that frame. And you came to be in it.” He shook his head. “To change so utterly. I cannot grasp the idea of it.”

“But I'll still be me!” Skywarp grinned. “You can't get rid of me that easily. It's mostly outer plating. Most of my transformation sequence will be the same. My wings'll go flat, like how most mechs have them-”

“Oh, but I love how your wings look! They're unique! Beautiful!”

“But they're such a pain. The world isn't built for this wing orientation. Things will be easier for me! I'll be able to sit next to you flush against the wall! We can get a new bed! No wing holes in it that snag your axels. No more accidentally breaking chunks outta the top of the doorways.” Skywarp leaned forward. “I gotta get outta there. I _hate_ it there. Starscream is giving me a way out and he's even gonna pay for the rebuilding. It's not that bad.”

“Why can't he change to match to _you_.”

“Pff. You know why. I'm nobody, Mirage! Even with all your connections, you couldn't get me out.”

“I'm still trying! I might be able to find another avenue to-”

“Starscream is a _senator_. He's got all kinds of pull and funds and, I dunno, political shit.” Skywarp took a bite of Mirage's cube then pushed it back towards him. “Eat this. You need to eat. Thundercracker agreed right away but I said I'd need a day. I needed to tell you first. Would you love me less if I looked different?”

“No, I-” Mirage reset his vocalizer. “I don't think so. I just... it would be an adjustment. It's your first major modification. I know we're built for that kind of thing. I just... never thought it would happen.”

“I'll still have my biolight color,” said Skywarp. “They absolutely _cannot_ change that.”

“Your helm? Your chest?”

“They'll both change. Same face, though. You'll like the new chest! I'll have a glass cockpit instead of this.” He banged his hand against his chest- the solid metal nosecone of his flight mode. “And helm vents at the sides! I think that'll be great, actually. Sometimes it gets a little hot in here. That'll help with the air flow. Do you know what Starscream looks like? Here.” Skywarp pulled a campaign poster from subspace.

“Oh, the helm... it is quite a cute design.”

“Yeah! Mine's feelin' kinda old. Round helms aren't in anymore. Everyone's going for more angles and details.” Skywarp turned the poster. “Look, here's how the new wings will be. I'm keeping my colors, of course. And Thundercracker will keep his. And, so yeah. We're gonna be a group. Strength in numbers. I think... I think I'm gonna finally feel like someone, ya know?”

“You _are_ someone,” said Mirage. 

“Yeah, to _you_.”

“And! Do I not count!”

“Being someone to you is the most important thing in every world to me,” said Skywarp. His field flushed with sincerity. “But being someone to everyone _else_ is what's gonna make me a real mech. It's what's gonna get me to better places. Better pay. You know I hate that you pay for most of this-”

“I don't mind! I am happy to share!”

“Yeah, I know, but I gotta pull my weight, too. It feels shitty not contributing that much. And working _so hard_ to not contribute! If I'm somebody more important, I'll get respect. I'll make a real wage. I'll be able to give you all the things I wanna give you, instead of it always being the other way around.”

“You don't have to prove anything to me,” said Mirage. “I don't care about the _things_. I've _had_ things. Polysilk, jewels, gold. They don't mean anything.”

“Well, _I_ haven't had things. They mean something to me. And they'll mean something to you when I give them to you.”

Mirage sighed. He studied the poster. “I do like the cockpit.”

“Hah! I knew it.”

“I know I can't tell you what to do. I know you've already made this decision for yourself. I'll respect it, of course. But I shall miss... the you that was when we met.”

“I'll still be me!” Skywarp pressed Mirage's hand against his chest. “It'll be like when you shattered that pane in your shin. We each kept a piece, right? And your whole shin's metal now. It's stronger. It can't break again. You said it felt lighter, was easier to move. But you're still you, right?”

Mirage traced the place on Skywarp's chest where that piece of glass was soldered, safely, on the inside. “Yes.”

“It's the same thing, just on a bigger scale. Let's do the same thing for me. We'll each keep a piece, okay? We'll each get a wingtip. Keep it inside.” 

“I like that idea.”

Skywarp raised Mirage's hand to his lips. “I'll still be me and I'll still be here.” He kissed it. “I'll always be here.” 

~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In IDW's Optimus Prime 2018 Annual, "Thundercracker in: 'Starscream: The Movie,'" Thundercracker visits Skywarp and Skywarp reveals, in a dense burst of panels, a fascinating piece of their past: both were at the Jhiaxian Academy and changed their bodies to look like Starscream (at his behest) to get out. I always thought this was an amazing bit of world building. I wish we could've seen more of that past in the comics. Alas, fanfic will have to do.
> 
> That particular comic issue is very interesting. I recommend it :) In it you can see the old Skywarp frame Mirage refers to in this chapter.


	8. The Irradion

Mirage spent the next few days enduring more scans, ignoring Quickmix when he came over to give Flatline updates on the glass-making process, helping with house calls, and doing labor trades for Spreem. He glanced at the shop's light monitors whenever he got the chance, but he had not yet had the opportunity to investigate them properly. Flatline was always skulking around. He never left Mirage alone in the shop. Mirage had tried once, at night, to use one of the light monitors. It was locked out and Flatline's squinting the following morning lead Mirage to believe it might have recorded the incident. 

The giant black door and its biometric reader likewise hovered at the periphery of his mind: what was in there? What warranted such protection? But, like the monitors, Mirage hadn't had a chance to examine it. Mirage's musings on the black door became increasingly creative. Bodies? Weapons? Weapons made of bodies? Bodies made of weapons? Body mods? Med bed victims? Modifications for the med bed that would turn the patient inside-out as they slept?

“-you listening, sweetheart?”

Mirage snapped to attention. Hovering above was a sight that was becoming more and more familiar- the unrelenting glow of light monitors and Flatline's stern, masked face. This time there was also another mech. .:What? Listen to you, Quickmix? Never:.

“Please,” muttered Flatline, voice low. “Please, just let me get through this without you two getting into another stupid fight.”

.:I have conducted myself with the _utmost_ professionalism in _all_ instances-:.

“Wouldja listen to this guy? Who can even stand hi-”

“Shut up,” snapped Flatline. “Both of you.” He pushed a button and the med bed looped restraints around Mirage's wrists and ankles.

.:Is this necessary!:. Mirage's field flashed with indignation and he pushed against the restraints. .:I protest!:.

“Ooo,” said Quickmix, leaning over Mirage. “I like this. Flatline, you never told me the bed could do that!”

“It's precautionary,” said Flatline. “This test might be painful. And I know who his punching bag of choice will be if it is.”

.:Then I protest all the more, that you would deny me suitable self expression!:.

“Heh heh heh. I'd _love_ to see you try.”

“Shut up, Quickmix. Gimmie the prototype.” Quickmix handed over a yellowed piece of glass. Flatline held it out so Mirage could see it. “Mirage, this is a cast of your face. I'm going to set this into your helm and run a test to see if the nerve branches and blood vessels are compatible. Only your processor knows for sure. Turn off your holo face, please.”

Mirage did so. He pulled his field in and gripped the med bed. It undulated gently against his back.

Flatline carefully slipped the prototype into Mirage's empty helm. He prodded it here and there until it snapped into place. “How does that feel?”

.:Strange. Like the metal mask you gave me to work at Spreem's. Like a dead weight in my helm:.

“It _is_ a dead weight,” said Quickmix. “Doesn't have any of your spark or blood going through it yet.”

.:Is the final version going to be yellowish? I don't care for that:.

Quickmix rolled his eyes. “No, sweetie, it won't be. It'll be perfectly clear. So you can cover it up with paint.”

.:Good:.

“Good.”

“Good,” said Flatline, as he exposed the bare nerve endings of Mirage's helm to the prototype. Spark energy jumped from them into the glass. “Does that hur-”

.:OW! Ow! Ow! Turn it off!:. Mirage's field blared with pain and his limbs thrashed against the restraints. 

Quickmix's field thickened. He stepped back.

“Damn,” said Flatline. He severed the connection. “We found three different vessel types in your old face during scanning. All three have been incorporated into the prototype. Why didn't this work...” He tapped at the light monitors.

.:Ow:. comm'd Mirage weakly. .:You did that on purpose! Molded it wrong so it would hurt!:.

“No, I didn't!” said Quickmix. “Say what you want about me, but my work is _excellent_.”

.:Did your field thicken? That's sick:.

“Yes it did and yes that is.”

.:You don't have to sound so proud of it!:.

Quickmix shrugged. “At least I'm not lying about it, _sweetspy_.”

.:You just wait until I am fully rehabilitated! I will-”

“Starting test two,” interrupted Flatline.

.:OW!:.

The testing and bickering continued until Mirage demanded they stop. .:This is torture! I will not stand for this any longer! Or, lie down for this, as it were:.

“Yeah, unfortunately, we're not getting good results.” Flatline's finials were low. He released the restraints and flicked through the light monitors. “I'm going to send suggestions for a second prototype cast, Quickmix. I want the next test to go more smoothly.”

“Looking _forward_ to it,” said Quickmix.

Mirage sent him a nasty hiss of data over the comm. Quickmix shuddered, glared, and stalked out.

Flatline popped the prototype out of Mirage's helm and pulled him to a sitting position. Mirage took in his flat finials and flashing eyes, absolutely devoid of all patience. .:Spreem's?:.

“Spreem's.”

Mirage hauled himself off the bed and went next door.

Earlier in the week, Mirage had formally introduced himself via comm to Flashflux, who was also working off her labor trade there. Spreem wanted the dining area redone. Before he even had a chance to explain his plans, Flashflux had begun ripping up the sticky flooring with her bare hands. Mirage helped gather and dump the debris into disposal crates. 

Flatline had given him a thick, metal insert which clipped to the inside of his helm. It had an air filter that protected his brain module and eyes from the flying dirt and debris much better than his holo face could. The amount of energy it took to project the holo face Mirage saved was equal to the effort required to move his heavy helm around.

“So,” said Flashflux, flexing her wings and yanking up a huge portion of flooring. “What did _you_ do during the war?”

Mirage groaned inwardly. .:I dislike discussing the war:.

“Really?” Flashflux twisted and flung the flooring at Mirage's feet. He jumped back. “Everyone I know _loves_ talking about it.”

.:Not I:.

“Why?”

.:It's not a pleasant topic:.

“Well, yeah. That's the point.” Flashflux wiped dust from her helm. “Wanna hear about the starvation years on Caminus?”

.:Respectfully, I do not:.

“No one's gonna ever starve again!” called Spreem from the kitchen.

Flashflux grinned. “I knew I liked this guy.”

.:Yes, his company is preferable to certain others:.

“Thanks!!”

During one of their breaks, Flashflux pulled a tiny, colorful kit from subspace and painted something on Mirage's metal mask. She smiled to herself.

.:What was that? What did you do?:.

“This face isn't as good as the one you had when you visited us,” she said. “So I gave you a proper one. A Camien face! On Caminus I was a make-up artist.” Flashflux pocketed the make-up kit. “And a stage hand. Mostly a stage hand.” She scoffed. “You know how it is there. Damn cliques.”

.:Er... right:. Mirage held up a tarnished sheet of metal, trying to see his reflection. His eyes were lined with heavy red and white flourishes. He studied them, frowning inwardly. They definitely had the air of culture about them. .:What does it mean?:.

“I gave you righteous Cityspeaker lines,” said Flashflux. “Modified, of course. This is what protagonists in our plays get when they're Cityspeakers. You can't do the real patterns, that'd be blasphemous. These are approved, symbolic interpretations.”

.:I don't... I don't understand:. Mirage tilted his helm. 

Spreem poked his visor out from the kitchen. “Oh, it looks good!” He gave a thumbs up. “You look like Windblade!”

.:Who is Windblade?:.

Flashflux's jaw dropped. “She's the Camien ambassador! How do you not know that?” Her field brushed against Mirage's with incredulity.

.:I returned to Iacon recently. Things are very different from the last time I was here:.

Flashflux squinted at him. “Cityspeakers have special markings because they can talk to the Titans. Windblade speaks to Caminus.”

.:Excuse me??:. Mirage clamped down on his field before it could broadcast his shock. .:They speak to the gods?:.

“No, Titans.”

.:Oh:. Mirage tossed the sheet of metal aside. .:I don't suppose the Titans talk back?:.

“They do! They're alive, you know. Just like you and I.”

.:But they're not gods:.

“Well? I guess not. Some people include Caminus in their worship. It was he and Solus Prime who gave us life.”

.:Solus who?:.

Flashflux looked at him incredulously. “Solus Prime?! The most hallowed of the thirteen Primes?”

.:I've never heard of him:.

“Her!”

.:Her:.

“Amazing,” said Flashflux. “What did they teach you non-Camiens as sparklings?”

.:You don't want to know:.

“Don't I?” 

Mirage didn't reply. Flashflux looked at him skeptically. “You're a strange mech.”

.:Yes. Thank you:. 

“Welcome.” 

Mirage turned away from Flashflux and nudged a pile of broken flooring with his foot. .:All the disposal crates are full:.

“I'll go get more,” said Flashflux. “Be right back.” She exited the restaurant, tucking her wings in at the door.

Mirage half-heartedly pushed debris around for a few minutes until Spreem called, “hey Mirage! Come to the kitchen.” 

Spreem stood at the stove, his faithful pot of soup bubbling as fervently as his visor. “Can you tell me what this says?” He handed Mirage a small container.

Mirage held it up to his eyes. .:It's not a dialect I'm familiar with:.

“Can you read it?”

.:I can read the letters but I don't know what it says:. Mirage turned the container around. .:Oh, there's another language on this side. This is a crystal powder from-”

**bang!**

Spreem and Mirage both jumped. Spreem's large arm transformed into an enormous gun and he crouched down in a defensive stance, visor scanning the kitchen back and forth. Mirage dropped to the floor, invisible, and yanked his field in.

“What the hell was that?” shouted Spreem.

.:I don't know. Doesn't sound like any firepower I've heard before:.

“Where'd you g-”

**bang! bang!**

Mirage crept towards the kitchen exit, grimacing inwardly at the stained floor. _Flashflux?? Could it be her? But why would she fire on us... no, that's ridiculous._ .:Do you see anything?:.

“I see my kitchen.” Spreem stomped away from Mirage. He heard dishes being pushed around. “Ow!”

When Spreem didn't elaborate, Mirage pulled himself up. Familiar flames appeared on the stove, enveloping the soup pot and Spreem. Spreem's gun arm had transformed back into a fist and he was shaking it. The soup pot had a huge dent in it. 

_Oh, the fire has appeared much faster than usual. I haven't been invisible for very long at all!_ Mirage sadly watched the fire spread, trying to squash a rising feeling of pitifulness. Smoke wreathed the ceiling.

“Mirage?”

.:Here:. Mirage returned to visibility.

“There you are,” said Spreem. Fire sprayed out as he shook his arm. “You want to help me with this?”

Mirage's field flashed with shock. He reset his eyes. The fire remained, climbing the walls, creeping around Spreem's shoulders. He reset his eyes again. _Oh no! I can still see the fire, even though I'm visible! My processor has gone completely!_

“Hello? The soup is on fire!” 

**bang!** Flaming liquid flew out of the pot and hit the walls.

.:Oh!:. Mirage looked around the kitchen frantically. The heat of the flames reached him and he backed away. .:Where is your fire extinguisher?:.

“Empty. Flatline has one.”

.:I'll go fetch him! Stop shaking your arm! And move the pot off the heat and cover it!:.

“Good idea!” 

Mirage turned, jumped over the counter, and ran out the door. He nearly smashed into Flashflux, who held a teetering tower of disposal crates. “Whoa!” she said, gripping the crates. “What the hell?!” But Mirage pushed past her.

It was a very short distance, and though he was not practiced, Mirage was a race car after all. He was quite fast even in robot mode. He reached the body shop in seconds.

Flatline looked up as Mirage burst in. His finials raised and his missiles clicked at the sight of the Autobot barreling towards him. “Whoa! What-”

.:Quick! Spreem! He needs help!:. Mirage pointed next door, his field urgent.

Flatline jumped to his feet. “What happened?”

Mirage waved his arms, holographic flames appearing. .:Kitchen accident! No fire extinguisher there! Please, help him!:.

“Not again.” Flatline swore. He grabbed his medical bag, a large canister, and ran out the door.

Mirage watched him go. He glanced around for a moment, steadying his breathing. _I don't suppose he would want me to follow him and help,_ he thought. _I have told him I have a thing about fire, haven't I?_

The only answer was silence. In this stillness, Mirage realized the body shop was empty. Unattended. _Unguarded_. The consoles were on and had been abandoned without being locked out. This might be the only chance Mirage got to snoop around. With just the tiniest twinge of guilt, Mirage went invisible. He approached the console Flatline had been working on. 

Mirage had studied his quick image captures of the screens and cross referenced them against typical database architecture. Flatline's database was a purchased template and had only a few customized modules. Mirage navigated to the patient module. Scrolling through his list of possible code cracks, he quickly found the one that let him access the search screen for the master database of patients' names and spectrographs. First, as a test, he typed his own name. The result came up immediately:

**Mirage:** _Forged, Thundering Crystal Caverns, 097.c013.66o209.4._

_He didn't triple encrypt my data as he said he would!_ thought Mirage. _Well, if he's too lazy to encrypt mine, this shouldn't be too hard. Time to dig around. We'll start with you, Flatline. Maybe your location of birth will give me some kind of lead._

He typed, “Flatline.”

**Flatline:** _Protected Data, Access Denied_

Mirage stared at the screen for a split second as he tried to recall where on Cybertron “Protected Data” was located- then the meaning of the words clicked. He chuckled inwardly at himself to relieve his irritation and embarrassment. 

Mirage went back through his database architecture notes and cross-referenced them with a few files Jazz had given him a long time ago. Typical configurations for Decepticon encryption, with emphasis on key slang codes used by Decepticon underlings. Glancing at the main door every so often, he tried each one. At last, he was granted access with the key “/\/\3647120|\|5\/(|<5.”

**Flatline:** _Prototype Batch I, The Irradion_

Mirage puzzled over this information. _Prototype Batch 1? What?_ Mirage knew _The Irradion_ was the space station Flatline had served aboard as a Decepticon. Flatline had made it sound like he had come to be on Cybertron, been wooed by the rhetoric, and then been assigned to _The Irradion_. But this data alluded to cold construction, what with “prototype batch” and the lack of a Cybertronian location for a name. Had Flatline been constructed aboard station? 

_Why did he lie about that? A lie through omission, perhaps, but... what does it mean?_ Mirage cogitated on it for a few seconds. _Perhaps those in his batch class have exploitable weaknesses. No time to waste on hypotheticals, however. He could return at any moment._

Mirage navigated through a few screens, trying to find another way to access the patient information. _I don't have a specific name to search. I need to find a list of all the names!_ He typed frantically. _I can't even search by location! Who wrote this program? I've breached more difficult databases than a simple medic's, surely. What would Jazz have done? Downloaded the entire thing and brought it back to base for Prowl to crunch. I do not have that luxury, however._

After a few more seconds of tapping, he backed out of the database, erasing any trace of his presence, and returned the monitor to its original display. _No time to fiddle with this now. I know the passwords. I can try again at night, when Flatline is sleeping. The most pressing mystery lies elsewhere..._

Mirage crossed the room and studied the glowing biometric palm reader on the huge, black door. It wasn't a model he had worked on before. Mirage laid his hand over it and evaluated its scanners. It was programmed to unlock with a combination of pressure and biometric readings. 

Mirage smiled inwardly- _this_ was his specialty. Constructing biometrics within parameters. He was faster than anyone else he had met. Jazz could grab the data, Prowl crunch and sort it, but _he_ could make up his own. The results were “unbelievably believable,” as Jazz said. It wasn't a skill that came in handy too often nowadays, but when it did...

_Time to find out what he's been hiding._ Mirage pressed down _hard_ on the scanner and flashed a stream of data into it. He braced himself for whatever might be inside.

The huge, black gears groaned, spun, and pulled the door aside. Red light spilled out.

Mirage glanced at the shop's entrance. Still no Flatline. He straightened his shoulders and walked in.

The room was small and cool, lit from above with a bright red light that cast deep shadows. The walls were lined with shelves. The shelves were full of boxes. Each was etched with a location name and a graph, carefully aligned to the straight edges of the box. From floor to ceiling, the room was absolutely packed with boxes in perfect rows.

Poking out from the boxes were feet, helms, guns; jaws and cheek assemblies hooked over the edges; dismembered arms hung down, their biolight glass flashing in the red light. Piles of plating and armor were all neatly stacked to one side. Wings and fins were bundled end-to-end, also labeled. 

Mirage gasped, in as much as his altered intake allowed. He stepped back and a tiny _ting_ rang out. A small box of eyes lay at his feet, twinkling. He shuddered.

_By Primus!_

The display made his spark twist. It was almost worse than the mortuaries. Mortuaries were where bodies belonged. Not _here_ , in pieces, disrespectfully mixed up. Where had these mech parts come from?! Had Flatline murdered them all? Or paid others to?

Then it hit him. _He_ was part of this. This. Whatever this was. Raiding mortuaries to fill this horrible tiny room with body parts. This was where Flatline was storing them.

_Ugh! A corpse library! I've seen enough._

Mirage backed up, the wheels in his feet hitting boxes on the floor, moving them out of place. _Uh oh, Flatline will notice that._ He crouched to realign them and out of the corner of his eye the red light flickered. _Oh no._

Flames appeared, springing up and racing down the rows of boxes, filling the room. Mirage heard the biolights shatter, the tiny box of optical glass crackling. _Oh no! It's not real! It's not real!_ Mirage crept backwards, the scent of smoke burning through his processor. _It can't be real!_

He slammed into something hard.

“What the _hell?_ ” 

Mirage looked up; Flatline towered over him. It was his leg Mirage had slammed into. 

Flatline squinted down at the thing that had hit him. The invisible thing. He nudged it.

Mirage flickered into view. Whatever Flatline had to say, he would face it. It could not possibly be as terrible as the flames, which died away as soon as he became visible. 

“A Cityspeaker?” Flatline's finials moved in tiny circles as he processed what he was looking at. Then they went straight back on his helm. “ _Mirage?!_ ” 

.:Yes:.

Flatline bent and yanked Mirage up to his feet as if he weighed nothing. “What are you _doing in here?_ ”

No use lying. .:I was curious:.

“ _Curious?!_ ” Flatline snarled and stepped forward. Mirage darted around him and ran out of the little room. Flatline turned and slapped the biometric reader. The door closed with a loud _clang_. “Curious?!” The medic stormed past Mirage and threw himself into a chair. He pounded the keyboards, initiating global scans. “What did you do? Did you touch anything? Did you take anything? Did you get into my database?”

.:I didn't touch anything:. Mirage kept his distance, edging slowly towards the exit, in case an escape was necessary.

“Ah, ah, ah,” said Flatline. He snapped and the exit door clicked. “Locked down. What were you doing, Mirage? Who sent you?”

Mirage was startled by the unexpected question. .:Sent me? No one sent me:.

“Yeah, sure. Fucking Autobot spy. Right in my house. Hacks my palm reader. You know, I was _guaranteed_ it was hack-proof. I'm gonna wring that little liar's neck next time I see him... Fucking Autobots. Goddamn liars, all of you. Mech puts his _whole_ business on hold to help one and the scraplet digs and digs and digs... never see the Camiens pulling this...”

Mirage waited, ready to comm First Aid with an emergency hail if necessary. But the medic wasn't reacting the way one would normally predict. He was muttering bitterly and swearing. Slamming the keyboards and pushing light monitors this way and that. His anger was palpable, but he was doing the little physical things mechs did to vent it without resorting to violence- flashing his biolights, semi-transforming bits of his kibble, shaking his limbs. Finally, he stood, throwing the chair back.

“I don't see any evidence that you've gotten access to my database, but so help me, if you did...” 

.:I didn't touch anything:. sent Mirage. It was _technically_ true. He noticed that Flatline was purposefully keeping his distance, clenching and unclenching his fists. _He's staying away from me so he doesn't hurt me in anger,_ thought Mirage. He was impressed. It was more than many Autobots were capable of doing. Very slowly, Mirage unlatched the metal mask in his helm and set it down. His holo face flickered on.

“There's no way I can continue your treatment with you digging into things like this,” said Flatline. “You are an actively destructive force to my practice. There are things I know that you don't need to know. Private things. Painful things. I'm pissed you broke into the room, yeah. But it's a room of body parts. Who cares? How do you think I repair mechs with their birth metal? It's a library. Everything is organized by birth location. It's locked up in red light to prevent fading or dustification.”

Mirage just stared. It was an excellent tactic- provide a silence for the other to fill.

The tiny plates and alt mode bits around Flatline's body twitched. “What the fuck do you want me to say about it, Mirage? _You've_ helped fill a couple of those boxes. If you had spent even half a minute thinking about the collecting you were doing, you would've realized those parts had to _go somewhere_.”

.:Yes, I had imagined they were stored in subspace. But this massive, biometrically-locked door? There could have been _anything_ behind a door like that:.

“Like _what?_ ”

.:Illegal substances? Weapons? Slaves?:.

“ _Slaves?!_ ” Flatline pointed to the sparkbeat biolight on his forearm. “I'm a goddamn medic! Sworn to help people! What do you fucking take me for?”

.:I don't know! Who's your special client? Who's making demands of you?:.

“Hah!” The laugh was bitter, loud. “Is _that_ what all this is about? I told you, client confidence! Who are _you_ working for? It's pretty convenient that your rehabilitation places you directly in my shop for an extended period of time! Create a little distraction next door and everything is right here for the taking. Who sent you to dig up things about me?”

.:I'm working for no one. I am investigating out of my own curiosity, as I said. Do you think I would have broken my own face for _any_ price? I would have come to you with a different injury, if I were working a job!:.

“Hrmm...”

As the medic stewed, Mirage reviewed their conversation. He was at a dead end. Flatline wasn't going to reveal the identity of his client. Mirage thought about the door. It was true, all that harvested metal had to go somewhere. Bizarre and creepy as hell, but the medic's behavior aligned with that being the room's only purpose. The fact that he hadn't found any weapons made Mirage feel ever so slightly better about the whole thing. If all of this was for birth metal, and not some other thing like weapons or illegal goods, than that must be what the client was truly after...

.:Your client needs a special kind of birth metal?:.

“Yes,” spat Flatline.

.:What for?:.

“What do you _think?_ ”

Mirage thought back to his first conversation with Flatline. Flatline had insisted the body part collection was strictly “for healing.” .:Someone is hurt:.

“You could say that.”

.:Someone important?:.

“ _Obviously_.”

.:Starscream?:.

“I can't say.”

.:So, it is Starscream:.

Flatline, at last, stepped towards Mirage. “Stop asking questions! You know I can't tell you!”

.:Can't, or won't? Are you in danger?:.

“ _No._ But it is a _private matter_. You are not privilege to any of this individual's information! _Why_ do you keep asking?”

.:Because you've kept me around even though I can no longer perform your distasteful errands. You must have something else planned for me! But I do not wish to be a part of anything that harms others!:.

Flatline waved his biolit forearms. “Either do I! By Primus, what do I have to do to convince you of this, Mirage?”

Mirage considered the question. This was his chance to ask anything. Except who the client was, apparently. He tried to think of another way to approach the subject. He floundered for leads. He hadn't had a chance to research much about the hospital Flatline had built. He hadn't had a chance to ask Hot Spot probing questions. He had learned very little, for all his snooping. 

Flatline's encrypted entry in the database kept coming up in his mind. _Prototype Batch 1._ The Prowl-trained part of his processor wouldn't let that go.

.:Tell me about _The Irradion_. Tell me about your time as a Decepticon. Tell me how you came to be:.

Flatline's finials went straight back. “Oh, you wanna talk about _The Irradion_? You have _no idea_ what it was. What was done there...” He shook his head. “It's not right. It's _not right_.”

.:Tell me:.

“I'll tell you... _if_ you stop digging into all the other things that aren't your business. It's really, really detrimental to my work and what I'm trying to do here.”

Mirage stared, yellow eyes unblinking, as always.

“Well?! I know you could just say 'alright' to my face and sneak around anyway. If you've beaten my door you can probably get into my database. I don't want that to happen. I need a promise. Got some kinda spy-honor to put on the line, Mirage?” 

.:Not as such:.

“Are you even capable of making a promise and keeping it?”

.:Such an insult! Of course I am!:.

“So?”

.:I'm weighing my options:.

Flatline sat down heavily. His field was wispy, strained. “Patient confidentiality is the backbone of this operation. I'm trusted. I can't lose that trust. It's why I'm highly recommended. I know you've heard that phrase a couple times on our house calls. How would _you_ feel if some stranger busted into my records and downloaded all your personal information?”

_If I nearly did that tonight, it's only a matter of time before it happens._ .:Obviously, that is not a desired outcome:.

Flatline snorted. “Give me a promise, Mirage.” 

Mirage thought of all the ways he could sneak into the database, how easy it would be, indeed, to say “alright” now and do whatever the hell he wanted at night while the former Decepticon slept. 

He thought about what it meant to be an Autobot. The idealized Autobot. Not the real things, who were mechs just like he, forced to dance along gray lines and justify gray actions.

He thought about the times in the past when people had said “alright” to his face and then done what _they_ wanted.

.:Tell me about _The Irradion_ and I will cease all infiltration activities:. In a rare expression, he pushed his field out to brush against Flatline's with sincerity.

“Okay.” Flatline clapped his hands together. “This is something that I haven't told anyone. _Anyone!_ Except Quickmix. So, I'd appreciate it if you didn't share.”

.:My discretion is absolute:. _Quickmix?!_

“Sit down. You should sit down for this.” Flatline waited til Mirage found a seat. “You've heard of Grindcore?”

Mirage folded one leg over the other and sat up straight. .:I've heard rumors:.

“Yeah, well. They're all real. Whatever the worst thing you ever heard about it- it's real, okay? _The Irradion_ was the testing grounds, a mini-Grindcore on a space station. Scalpel hadn't perfected the furnace/sieve tech necessary for the procedures yet so they were spinning the station around a quasar, using it as the energy source.” Flatline breathed deeply and rubbed his forehead. “My lot number was Prototype Batch 1... it was... it was the first successful batch of Decepticons made from furnace leavings. Ten Autobots went in. Ten Decepticons came out.”

Mirage was silent, processing the information. He hadn't brought up “Prototype Batch 1,” obviously. Flatline's account was consistent with what was in the database.

“If you get what I mean.”

.:I think I do:.

“They told me I'd been forged on Cybertron and been attacked by Autobots, suffered an injury, and that's why I couldn't remember my past. They told me I'd signed up to be a Decepticon and had been assigned to the medical station, _The Irradion_. We used the station as an HQ of sorts and provided discreet medical services to Decepticon spec ops. I liked that part- I liked putting mechs back together, seeing how they worked, making them more efficient. But the rest I loathed. Megatron sent his troublemakers and choice Autobot POWs to _The Irradion_. You have no idea how many guys I've killswitched, cuz I'm the only one who can do that.” The biolights in his forearms went off and on. “How draining it is, how shitty it feels to do to someone. By Primus, how _pissed_ they are when they wake up again. But the whole truth- which almost no one actually knew- was that some of those Autobot POWs, we were experimenting on them, melting them alive and making Decepticons out of what was left. I didn't even know. Nearly the whole time I was aboard station. I had _no idea_ what I was made of. _Who_ I was made of.”

.:That's horrific!:. Mirage felt a pang of sadness for his lost fellows. _What an awful, disgusting way for innocent mechs to go._ Then he felt a twinge of guilt for his own behavior. _No wonder Flatline had been so insulted by my Decepticon taunts... I pushed and prodded a deep wound._

“It is. It _sickens_ me,” said Flatline. “I'm made out of dead people. Who died horribly. For a cause I never fully understood and only supported because I'd been literally born into it. The day I confronted Scalpel about it and he confirmed it, I ripped off my badge and shoved it down the chute to the furnace. I destroyed my Decepticon badge, Mirage. I stole an escape pod and got the hell out of there and I felt free. I was happy at first. But after a while, I felt broken. The badge was made from my spark chamber. Light from my spark leaks out. All Decepticons have that, you know. Did you know?”

.:I didn't:.

“Our spark light leaks out and sometimes it feels so cold. I'm searching for anyone who might be made of the same mix of metals as I am, so I can plug the holes. So I can feel whole again.”

.:Your direly impatient client...:. Mirage watched the tangle of theories in his mind – Flatline's nearly panicked insistence on the day they met, the mortuaries, the red room, the elemental trace-sensing equipment - dissolve away to a simple truth. .:is you?:.

“Yes,” said Flatline, his finials lowering slowly. “It aches. I'm aching to get it fixed. Everything you see here,” he swept his arms around the room, “the machines, the scans, the library, _everything_. The end game is to find... what I'm looking for.”

.:And there are only nine others like you:.

“Yes.”

.:You don't know their names?:.

“No. We were all separated before we were fully formed. The only names I know are those of the ten Autobots. And only because I sought the information out.”

.:It sounds like you have a very low chance of finding what you need. Why don't you use different metal to make the parts?:.

“Why don't you hardlight holo your face for the rest of your life?” spat Flatline.

Mirage animated his frown.

Flatline made an aggravated sound. He put his hands on his chest. “I _know_ it's different. I know I can hide my thing way easier than you can hide yours. But that doesn't mean it doesn't _bother_ me. I can feel my spark light leaking out. I can _feel_ the pieces missing in there.”

.:Just a temporary patch? Until you find what you need:.

“I've thought about it,” said Flatline. “I don't like the idea of it. Someone else's metal so close to my spark? Gross.”

.:There's no shame in using a tool to help you until a better solution comes along:. Mirage flickered his holo face meaningfully.

“Yeah, but, I feel like... argh,” Flatline made a fist. His biolights flashed and finials flicked back and forth. “I feel like...”

.:Yes?:.

His finials swung down slow, his body sagged in the chair. “Do you know that talking to you is kinda excruciating?”

.:I've gotten that impression before, yes:.

Flatline looked away. He pounded his fist on his thigh as he slowly said, “I feel like maybe I don't deserve it. Don't deserve the comfort that patches would bring until I find the _real_ metal. To honor those who died to make me.”

.:That's a cruel limit to place on yourself:.

Flatline made a dismissive noise and turned the chair toward the cabinets next to him. He nudged the perfectly lined up jars over and over. “That's only because you don't know what I did. What they had me do. I don't deserve... I just don't.”

Mirage tilted his helm. .:Is this why you are a medic now?:.

“I was always a medic.”

.:But you are different now, yes?:.

“Hope so.”

.:I would think so:. Mirage looked back at the past week in a new light, and was surprised by what he found. .:In our brief time together I have witnessed meaningful acts of charity and generosity from you. You gave me a feeding adaptor. You ostensibly have no use for me, now that I cannot go invisibly crawling through mass graves to collect material for you, yet you did not throw me out and dismiss our agreement. Instead, you offered to work around my processor issues and let me pay a different way. You gave the poor Camiens a filter and charged them less than the rich. You allow payment through labor trade and allow others to be the beneficiaries of such labor. Though you claim not to be his friend, you support Spreem and fund his dreams. I don't fully understand your relationship with Quickmix-:.

“That makes two of us.”

.:-but he strikes me as the kind of mech who 'wouldn't stick around if there wasn't something in it for him,' as they say. Some kind of mutualism exists there. Are these the actions of someone utterly unworthy of feeling whole, regardless of the material used to do so?:.

“Yeah... Yeah, I guess you're right.” Flatline sighed. “It's been _so_ long. Maybe I'll consider some kinda patch. Or something. Maybe.” His finials perked up. “On that note, I charged you too much for your treatment. It would still cost a _hell_ of a lot, no matter who you were, but I made some assumptions about your finances based on your frame. Sorry.”

.:You are not the first to do so. And I am sorry I broke into your creepy body parts closet:.

“Heh.” Flatline extended his hand. “You know, if you had just asked me, I might've told you what was in it.”

.:Really?:.

“Yeah. Cuz you were helping me fill it. I call it the 'Accessories Repository' when questioned. I like your name better, though.”

Mirage shook the proffered hand gently. .:Hot Spot recommended you because he said you had a good spark. I'm afraid I let my prejudices and suspicions guide me. I apologize for the taunts that were so deeply hurtful.” He thought of Flatline's field settling around him like a knife. “I see now why you reacted the way you did. Shall we proceed from a place of greater trust?:.

“Sounds good, mech. Wait. How did we get from you breaking into my creepy body parts closet to us shaking hands?”

Mirage struck a pose. .:My charm is indisputable:. Flatline rolled his eyes. .:And your temperament is _quite_ considerate. You seek to deescalate situations. I was confident you would not harm me for my transgression and we could steer the conversation towards amicable grounds. Mostly confident:. 

“Damn. First Aid warned me about you.” 

.:It was considerate of him to do so:. 

“He shoulda warned harder.”

Mirage's field fluttered with gentle amusement. .:How is Spreem, by the way?:.

“Oh, Spreem's fine. A tiny fire can't keep him down. I fixed up his burns and he'll come by tomorrow for a quick respray.” Flatline indicated a cabinet across the room. Large containers, larger than any others in the cabinets, held garish colors. “I keep backups on hand for just this kinda reason.”

Mirage projected a smile.

“Now get outta here before you cause more trouble,” said Flatline, turning to his monitors.

.:Heh. Alright:. 

Mirage retrieved his metal mask and returned to Spreem's to finish the day's labor trade. He found the tasks did not annoy him as much as before and he passed the time in a contemplative mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ten Autobots Flatline talks about here were the ones he mentioned thinking about every day in Chapter 6, "Former Decepticon" :>


	9. The Order of the Will of Primus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a non-detailed, non-explicit account of a non-con event told in first person point of view. If this topic is disturbing or uncomfortable for you, please do not proceed.

Mirage felt more at ease around the medic after that talk. Any lingering desire to tease Flatline about his Decepticon origins faded away. The sight of his large frame and red eyes no longer set Mirage on edge. 

Mirage honored his promise not to hack into the patient database. Again. 

And Flatline's curiosity about Mirage's stories was perhaps more genuine than before.

“This is the latest prototype,” said Flatline, holding it over the med bed so Mirage could see it from his reclined position. “Fresh from the mold.”

Mirage eyed it. .:Why is it yellow? I don't want yellow glass. And it's very rough! Why isn't it smooth?:.

“Yellow is cheaper, that's why we're using it for prototypes. And this version is missing its top coat because of the procedure I'm gonna do. I need all these little structures inside it to be exposed to the air. But the final product will be made of perfectly clear, smooth glass.” Flatline gently tilted the prototype face into Mirage's helm. “Quickmix will not be present for this procedure. I think there are negative consequences for _both_ of us when he is around you.”

.:Thank you. What will you be doing?:.

“I'm going to go through all these tiny, tiny sensors and vessels, one by one, and test if they're compatible with your processor.” Flatline held up a thin metal cylinder with a short wire sticking out one end. “This is what I'm gonna use to complete isolated conduits between your processor and the prototype. I'm going to numb you, though. You won't feel anything. It'd be torture for you otherwise. So there's no need for you to endure being poked thousands and thousands of times with a needle.”

.:Thank you. But why must it be done so painstakingly?:.

“Because when we tried the fast way, you were in restraints,” said Flatline. “And you didn't care for that procedure.”

.:Oh. No, I did not:.

“While we're doing this procedure, I would like to run some scans.” Flatline pulled a few extra light monitors over the med bed. “I have a hypothesis I'd like to test.”

.:What do I have to do?:.

“Just talk. Tell me about different times in your past. The war. Before the war. Two weeks ago. Whatever.”

.:I don't like talking about-:.

“-the war. I know. We won't start there.” Flatline carefully hooked slender wires into the space between Mirage's helm and the prototype. “How about starting with The Order? I wasn't able to find much about it in the historical culture files of Iacon. Feeling up to the task?”

Mirage wiggled down more comfortably in the bed. .:It is a long story when told right:.

Flatline stretched his arms and picked up the tool. “No one else is coming to the shop today. It's just you and me and a needle.”

.:Very well...:.

~~

My earliest memory is just a fragment: as a sparkling, being taken home to the temple. The High Priest, Emīror, presenting me with robes and a veil and dressing me, patiently explaining that I was very, very special, and that my face must be covered at all times. The veil was made just for me; soft polysilk with rigid inserts at the sides, slightly magnetic. It fit perfectly to my face. Only my eyes showed. Emīror kissed my hands and prayed. He sang me a little song to teach me what I was: “You are the Window of Primus and you belong to Him!”

Emīror had scoured the hot spots for those through whom Primus could speak. I was the ultimate find, his absolute favorite. He had only ever found one other glass-faced mech, Sheen. But she was just half-faced. I replaced her and she was demoted to Head Acolyte. Sheen detested me for my perfection.

I had no name. I had many epithets. But most often, the priests and acolytes addressed me as, “dear one.”

In a short time I grew into adulthood and my role at the temple. I was resplendent! I was beautiful! A perfect offering, a flawless Window through which Primus could radiate his Will. I wore sleeveless robes of purest white, my veil heavy and threaded through with silver, my plating blessed with gold paint, my sacred etchings catching the light. I was proud of my standing, my beauty, my sacred duties. I poured forth all that I could, giving every ounce of myself to The Order. 

Emīror came from such great wealth, he said he had been blessed by Primus himself. He had been divinely inspired and founded The Order and built the temple. With great wealth comes access to the upper class. Emīror thought himself elegant and demanded we be, too. And so, as I mentioned, I was taught the classics of the outside world. The old stories that were deemed appropriate. The way to speak, the way to sit, the way to drive. The proper way to eat. I was taught all the rites and prayers and was held to strict standards in their performance. Mistakes were punished with shocks, sub-plating so they would leave no marks. I learned quickly. Sacred rites at dawn and dusk. Blessing the sacred fires and oils of the inner sanctum. And so forth. I was naturally quiet and this was encouraged: I was a blessed object, meant to be seen rather than heard.

The most intimate and important duty was the Oblectamentum- the rite that allowed Primus's Will to shine through me.

Devout pilgrims in good standing called upon the temple for guidance or answers. These were my excursions to the outside world- how I saw the private academies, the theaters, the art galleries, the places where wealth and culture mixed. The High Priest, a number of attendants, and I would journey to places of business or residence. We were treated like royalty. Offered entertainment and food. In turn, we made celebrations and prayers, the culmination of which was, when they paid the right price, the Oblectamentum.

Emīror led me up to a raised platform. He spoke sacred words. The pilgrims were allowed to approach, to ask their questions of Primus, offer gifts, and kiss my hands. When the High Priest lifted my veil, the pilgrims always stepped closer to see my face. Their gasps were endearing, their faith tangible. It was an exhilarating moment for me- my sacred beauty bared to the world, the cool air on my glass cheeks. The High Priest smiled at me and I smiled back. He bowed, then he slipped beneath my robes, his back to the pilgrims. He touched me gently, took me quivering and sighing to another place, until the Will of Primus rippled through me like lightning and pierced this world through my face. 

The Head Acolyte interpreted the patterns in the glass. The pilgrims went away with answers.

And so it was, for thousands of years. 

None were allowed to touch me, save the High Priest for The Oblectamentum, and the acolytes, for bathing, the painting of sacred gold symbols upon my plating, and supervised maintenance. I was the most important member of the temple and all smiled to behold me. I was in the company of finery and the illusion of great worth. If I made no errors, my life was peaceful. My duties were fulfilling, my faith unerring.

Until Emīror died.

We mourned deeply. Well-known pilgrims and members of The Order attended the funeral- it was a spectacle. Many of the upper class had been blessed in my presence, and they kissed my hands and gave their deepest condolences. Some offered to take me in but I politely declined. My place was at the temple, heralding Primus's Will.

Sheen announced that the High Priest from a sister temple was transferring over to take Emīror's position. His name was Praecisius. The acolytes murmured. They were worried. They had heard rumors.

I was nervous, but excited.

Praecisius arrived with a thunderstorm, throwing the front doors of the temple open himself. He was an imposing figure: towering, sleek, red and black shapes alluding to no particular alt mode- no wheels, treads, or wings. His biolights had been dug out and inlaid with gems. They flashed when he posed. He brandished a sickle, a helix of red and black with a sharp, black-diamond encrusted blade at its end. He insisted it be referred to as a staff.

His ascension at our temple meant changes and they were difficult. Punishments for mistakes were much harsher. Praecisius said that the pilgrims were not emptying their purses for us; he demanded more. Audiences with them became more frequent. I was told to be more charming, to be flirtatious and talkative. To let the pilgrims _touch me_. I balked at the latter and refused, and Praecisius was displeased. He took to lurking behind me, startling me, touching me through my robes- my axels, my back. “You belong to me,” he sneered. Over and over.

At last the day I was dreading arrived. A pilgrim had called for the Oblectamentum. We piled into our transport and Sheen sat right beside me. I twisted my robes in my hands the entire journey. My systems were at such unease my processor strobed red and yellow with alerts. For the first time _ever_ , Sheen exuded concern. 

We arrived at a mansion outfitted in such tasteless reproductions I thought at first that it was a joke, perhaps a set for a movie. The jewels were obviously glass, the walls inlaid with tarnished copper instead of gold. I clung to a last shred of hope that what we had seen of Praecisius so far was a distasteful shell around a reverent High Priest. 

But Praecisius skipped half the prayers. He yanked my veil off and threw it to the ground. I yelped. One of the acolytes gasped. The pilgrims leered, their biolights blinking slowly. Praecisius dove under my robes and didn't bother to settle them around his shoulders. I was laid bare before the room. I tried to cover us with my robes but he pushed my arms away. He was cruel with me, biting me, clawing me. The pilgrims looked at me not in reverence, but in titillation.

“Pretty little glitch!”

“ _Whore_.”

Their words pierced my spark. So hurtful were they, that the light of Primus would not come. Praecisius threw himself into the task until I cried out in pain and demanded he stop. I tried to push him away, but he forced my arms back with his staff, the sickle's edge resting on my lips. How I trembled! Even Sheen shouted in indignation.

Praecisius pressed something to me, something that shook, and that day I learned that the Will of Primus could be brought forth unwillingly.

I screamed afterwards and covered myself. I shouted at the acolytes to pull them from their shock and rushed out. It felt like something had been stolen from me. The Will of Primus had not been invoked in the proper way. I lacked the words to explain how it made me feel. My spark was a whirlwind of confusion, anger, hurt. I ordered the acolytes to take me home immediately. Praecisius could find his own way back. 

In our transport, I tried not to cry. I failed. My veil had been left behind; I covered my face with my hands. The acolytes sat close to me as we went, bound by vows not to touch, not to comfort. They were a breath's distance away, but I felt alone and wretched. They felt my pain and I felt their sorrow and their fear. Our collective emotions echoed in that space, building and swirling and magnifying between mechs until I thought my spark would burst from my chest to get away. 

At last one of the acolytes broke away from the group. “He's _so_ alone!” She held her arms out to me. 

I clung to her. 

A tiny sliver of her face pressed against mine in our embrace. I have never, ever forgotten the exact shape of it and where it touched my cheek. That warm, gentle contact of metal flesh upon glass.

I gave my thanks to her in sobs, poetic words in old languages that came closest to capturing my gratitude. The other acolytes stared. Then, one by one, shuffled closer and put comforting hands on us, albeit careful not to touch me, only my robes. The spell of fear was broken; its suffocating grip bled away. We were still afraid, but we were not alone.

Save Sheen, who turned her face so she could not say that she had seen us.

That night I demanded an audience with Praecisius in the presence of the entire temple.

“Praecisius! You _hurt_ me!” 

My words echoed in the great hall. Those in attendance stared. They had never seen me angry. I had never raised my voice before, and at the High Priest no less. Praecisius merely smirked.

“I am precious. I am dear!” I blinked away tears and pointed directly at him, unable to hide the shaking of my hand. “You called forth the Will of Primus in bad faith! You must follow my directions, for it is only through me that true answers can be found!”

Praecisius, to my utter horror, _laughed_. “I am the High Priest,” he said. “And you, dear one, are an object bound to my words. In this temple, I have the highest authority.” The other priests murmured their assent. The acolytes stared at the ground.

Why had the priests agreed with him? I was determined to explain Praecisius's wrongdoing. “None are higher than Primus himself! And as His Vessel to this world, I demand you treat me with proper respect! Who were those pilgrims? Such blasphemous words they spoke!” I placed my hand over my spark. “I do not believe they adhere to the ways of The Order!”

He laughed again and idly tilted his forearm. Its gems sparkled. “It would be more appropriate to call them clients, rather than pilgrims. You see, dear one, this temple does not bring in as much money as it should.” Praecisius gestured meaningfully to the acolytes. They looked away from me when I turned to them. “Perhaps if you performed your duties better, they would be in happier form.”

I had not noticed it before, not even in the transport, but their simple robes were several-times mended. Their plating scuffed and worn. Their eyes dull. 

“ _I_ am venturing down other avenues, exploring new channels of revenue for the temple.” He strode to me and stroked my axels. I shuddered and stepped away from him. “You _will_ obey.”

“I do not care for these channels! You will find another way. We will not desecrate the holy rites.”

Praecisius scoffed. “Who feeds you? Who clothes you? Who works for your leisure? You belong to me, object, and you'll do as you're told. These are my words and they are final.” He turned and indicated the priests with a wave. They followed him out of the great hall, already discussing other topics.

I stared at their retreating backs. Not a single one had spoken up for me, had defended my honored title and my wishes. I had never felt so dismissed and insulted. I had thought Praecisius would brush me aside, but the priests who had raised me? Taught me for years? Together they had the power to overrule a High Priest. Had they not a _single_ concern about the holy Will of Primus? Not a single shred of compassion for _me?_

“You,” I said, rounding on the closest acolyte, trying to get a grip on my station. My tone was not gentle, as it should have been, for I was deeply stung. “Acolyte. You are not presentable. Why are you unpolished? Why are your robes threadbare?”

Her eyes flickered up to mine for just a moment. I saw fear and shock there, then she looked away. “It is as the High Priest says, dear one. The money is gone. For every meal you eat, we take turns skipping one.”

“Preposterous,” I said. “The last blessing I did should cover a month's worth of meals!”

The acolyte bowed very low. “Yes, dear one.”

“And?”

She stared at the floor. 

“For shame!” yelled Sheen. She thrust herself between me and the acolyte, arms and wings spread, biolights flashing. “ _Shame_ , dear one!” Her tone was utterly disgusted. “How _quickly_ we forget acts of mercy!”

I was about to scold her harshly when I realized this acolyte was the very same who had embraced me not but a few hours ago. My spark spun in torment- that I should be cruelly treated, and then immediately do the same to others.

I had learned nothing good from Praecisius.

“Forgive me,” I said quietly to the acolyte, shame indeed burning in my chest. Tears streamed down my face and stained my veil. “Forgive me.”

Still staring at the floor, her eyes widened. She nodded.

Sheen dismissed the acolytes. When the great hall was clear, she grabbed my hand and yanked me to a corner. It nearly pulled me out of my stupor of self-pity. “I do not know where the money is, dear one,” she whispered. “But it is not in our pantry.”

“There must be a mistake,” I said, shaking my hand out.

“No, dear one,” she said, staring me in the eyes. Sheen was the only one in the temple who could do that until _I_ looked away. “I thought you were in league with Praecisius. Until tonight.”

“Tonight,” I echoed sadly.

“Something is happening,” she whispered, waving her hand in front of my face. “Pay attention, dear one!”

“I am! I am!”

Sheen glanced around the great hall. “We used to feast every week, remember? How long has it been since the last one?”

“Oh, I don't really-”

“Four months!” she spat. “Your rations go uncut, but my acolytes suffer.”

“I am- I am sorry-”

“I am not allowed to go wherever I wish,” Sheen said, slowly and carefully, enunciating every word. “but someone who _could_ do so might find some answers.”

“I understand what you are saying,” I replied. “But it is not as if I can go anywhere I wish, either. I have never been to the basements, the priests' quarters. Nor their offices, unless called. Nor the kitchen, the garage, the outer gardens, the-”

Sheen looked at me with grave disappointment. She pulled back her half veil to reveal her half glass face. “I was never enough for Emīror, never enough for Primus. I don't know why. I hate being between the two- not good enough for your company, not normal enough for the company of others. From the moment you arrived you were beloved- instantly granted the world. And if you think _you_ don't have any power... well, I've done all I can to help my acolytes. If you do not do something now, it will be far too late for _us_ when _you_ know hunger.” She let the veil fall back again. “You did not deserve Praecisius's cruelty tonight, dear one. But you are weak.”

She stalked away. It was the longest conversation we had ever had.

~~

I found no comfort in sleep that night. My mind was a tempest of hurt and anger. My spark burned. My body shuddered. Praecisius had summoned the Will of Primus without my consent. Would I be punished? Had I done wrong? I was certain it was not I that had transgressed, but still Primus had heeded an unholy call. 

I found myself wishing for Emīror. He never would have treated me so. At times when things did not go as planned, he had advice. He was stern, but he respected me, worshipped me...

I thought of the acolytes breaking their vows and showing me such mercy. I wondered, fleetingly, if worship was what I needed at this moment.

I transformed to pace about the room, as it was not big enough to drive in. I could not stop replaying Praecisius's actions in my mind over and over. The audacity of the mech, High Priest or no, to abuse me in that way. If only I had some means to convince the priests of his corruption, for surely he had used it to turn them against me. If only I were more brave, more outspoken. Stronger, bigger. Sheen was right. I was weak. I had hardly struggled. If only I could channel Primus's might at _my_ will, and not His passive messages at the will of others!

So embroiled was I in my mounting stress and anger, that I passed by my mirror several times without noticing an aberration...

My robes and veil were on the floor, where I had thrown them down before transforming to sleep. I picked them up, shook them out and laid them over a chair. I turned to look at myself in the vanity mirror and nearly offlined in shock.

_I was not there._

My spark froze in my chest. I held my arm up and waved it. I could _feel_ my arm, but see nothing. I could feel my whole body, but not see it. I strobed my biolights. They did not appear. I panicked.

Was this a punishment from Primus for my actions? For being too weak to stop Praecisius? Had my body been destroyed? Would I roam forevermore a spirit?

Just as terror washed through my processor, my hands reappeared, floating in midair. I waved them, dumbstruck, absolutely speechless at the sight. I backed away from them. They followed. My processor flitted frantically from thought fragment to thought fragment.

_I'm a ghost!_

_My back! I've hit the wall. I'm still solid._

_I'm not a ghost?_

_What is happening?!_

_Will I ever come back??_

I would have continued with such thoughts, but I suddenly reappeared. My spark spun. I touched my torso, my thighs. I ran to the mirror. I was there, my gold eyes glowing through my face as normal, my plating solid and polished. With shaking hands, I touched my face.

It, too, was solid.

I breathed, willing my spark to slow. I pulled the chair out and sat before the mirror. I stared, waiting to see if I would disappear again. 

I didn't. 

Finally, the sight of my own face unnerved me enough that I put my veil back on. I felt a bit better. I dressed and left my room for the inner sanctum to pray for guidance.

~~

“Wow,” said Flatline, pausing to wipe the needle with a clean cloth.

Mirage nodded through his field.

“You wished to be bigger and stronger so you could exact rightful vengeance and you got the most passive ability in the universe.”

.:The irony is not lost on me:.

Discomfort simmered in Flatline's field. He took up the needle again but didn't continue probing. He took a deep breath. “You know... what Praecisius did was wrong.”

.:I know:.

“It wasn't your fault.”

.:I know that now:.

“Good. This cult stuff is... fucked up.”

Mirage sent a sad sigh through the comm. .:I know:.

~~

Praying in the inner sanctum always calmed me. The room was warm and smelled of sacred oils. Primus had not spoken directly to me during prayer- he never did. But I _felt_ much better. 

I thought very hard about Praecisius and the priests and the acolytes. All around me were signs of negligence in the temple that I hadn't noticed before: peeling paint, cracked windows. Perhaps Primus had rendered me invisible as a metaphor- His temple was not being seen to and cared for, His importance was overlooked. It was a shocking way to make His point, but I grasped it. As His Vessel, I needed to reestablish the glory of the temple. I resolved to do so.

Imagine my surprise the next night when my hands again disappeared. I had thought only one lesson was necessary. Perhaps there was more to learn. I forced myself to remain calm. I watched myself in the mirror. My robes and veil hung in the air, a vision of sparkling gold and silver threads in pure white cloth. 

A thought occurred to me.

I undressed, watching the cloth hover and fall in the mirror. 

It was exhilarating to feel the air on my bare plating. But I felt naked and exposed without the veil. It was my protection, my barrier between the world and my fragile single reason for being. 

It did not take long for me to learn how to become invisible and visible at will. I wondered what discoveries I could make if I wandered. So I did. No matter how many times I explored the temple uncovered, I never got used to the feeling of being veilless.

Very soon the acolytes spoke in whispers of a ghost that roamed the temple. They felt a presence and saw objects moving of their own accord. I merely smiled when I heard them.

I followed the acolytes and saw that what Sheen had said was true: when preparing meals, they divided the food into eight parts. Then they drew lots, and the unlucky one placed their portion onto a silver plate. That plate was mine.

At night, after they had finished their duties around the temple, the acolytes retired to their small rooms in the basements. Sometimes two would go to a room and sleep in the same bed, limbs around each other. Despite the discomfort of folding between each others' alt mode pieces, they lay together joyfully. I watched them touch, kiss, embrace. Between a few of them, such love poured out, that my spark twinged. I realized I had never felt that. I noted that Sheen was never among those that paired up.

All my life I had been told that I was the most important thing in the temple. But here was Praecisius, abusing me so. And there were the acolytes, finding such joy without me.

The implications made my spark ache. I pushed them away. Primus had given me a gift and I needed to use it properly. I focused my attention on the priests. 

I sneaked into their offices and chambers. I found ledgers and documents that had been heavily edited. Bags of loose shanix. Disturbingly, some of them were smeared with blood. I copied the data sheets, took them back to my room, held them close to my eyes and read them over and over, trying to understand what clues were hidden within.

Promises and pledges. Money came in but it didn't stay in. It went to Praecisius.

I waited for a day I knew he was away, then slipped invisibly into his office. He had redecorated Emīror's office with the most hideous and tacky contemporary fashion. The beautiful old desk had been partially melted and braided coils were pressed into the melted places- an artistic allusion to “order in chaos,” though I was not sure why Praecisius, of all people, would embrace such a phrase. Perhaps he secretly meant it the other way around- chaos lurking in the heart of The Order. 

Shoved into the melted places were remnants of tablets and hardlight data sheets. I could find no records about money. Perhaps he left that unpleasant task to the priests. But I found part of a small hardlight notebook with information on the members of the temple. On the very last sheet, written in Emīror's handwriting, was:

_Sheen, forged in The Great Meteor Fall, half-faced glass! Oh blessed one, never-before-seen!_

Below it was an entry made at a later date:

_**Mirage, forged at The Thundering Crystal Caverns, full glass face!!! My Dear One!!!!** _

My spark stilled. For just a moment, the entire world came into focus. I had _my own name_. Mirage! As I tucked the notebook back in its place, I felt a strange realization bloom in my chest. Primus's gift had led me to discover so many secrets. Now I had a secret of my own. If I had my own name, then I belonged only to myself and Primus, no others! I was not just an object fashioned to convey His Will at the whims of a High Priest. I was a person with my own will!

That night I refused to attend a blessing with Praecisius. I sent the acolytes delivering his messages out, one by one, until the Head Acolyte came in. Her half-veil was ripped.

“Dear one,” Sheen said between her teeth, her wings high and rustling with agitation. “Praecisius demands an audience with you in the inner sanctum.”

“I will not go.”

“You must go,” she said. She approached, stood a breath's distance from me, tilted her head so her half-veil pulled away from her face. There were spidering lines in the glass half: circles around her eye, jagged lines radiating down her cheek. Light, blue as her eyes, flashed along the cracks. “Praecisius said none shall eat until you speak with him. Not even you. Not even me. And I am _very_ hungry.”

I felt her hunger. She was frail with it. And _angry_. 

I followed her to the inner sanctum, the round room with concentric rows of pillars, atop which stood bowls of either sacred oil or sacred flame. Acolytes were tending the fires and tipping fragrances into the sacred oils. Praecisius dismissed them at my arrival. They left, timid, clasping their hands before them.

He stood between two pillars of flame, arms out so his inlaid gems flashed. Ornate staff at hand, Praecisius had partially transformed his shoulders wider and taller. Or had he purchased extensions to his frame? “You disappoint me, _dear one_ ,” he said. “Approach.”

I stood resolutely still, fists at my sides.

Praecisius strode forward, gripped the front of my robes, and yanked me close. I could smell him even through my veil: high quality polish, filtered engex. “You must obey. You belong to me.”

I felt a pull in my spark, as if Primus were whispering that it was time to cast Praecisius out. But I was not ready. I was afraid. I was, by my very nature, quiet and reserved. “I have told you many times,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I belong only to Primus Himself!” I pulled at his hands, trying to dislodge them. “You cannot treat me in such a rough manner! I will not be disrobed and laid bare for your wretched clients. You must adhere to the sacred-”

He moved his staff. Its glittering, sharp edge lay by my neck. “You'll do as I tell you. Object.”

“I... I will not! I am no object and I will no longer attend private ceremonies with you!”

Praecisius made an amused sound. The sickle's edge cut through my veil. I tilted my head away. “You would deny the High Priest?”

“I would! You desecrated this place.” I gripped the staff. “You would let the unanointed touch me! You would let non-believers witness the most private ceremony to seek the Will of Primus, only to ignore His wisdom!” Praecisius snarled and pulled the staff out of my hands. I stepped back and shouted. “You use me not for my gift, but for profit! You press our pilgrims to give more and more, yet the temple falls to disrepair!” I gestured to a nearby pillar, its once shining exterior now pocketed with rust and holes. “Where is that money going, Praecisius? To your purse!”

He smiled. It was an unkind smile, thin-lipped and drawn back over teeth. “You really think you're special, don't you?”

“Of course,” I said. “I am the Window. I am the Mirror. Through me the Will of Pr-”

“Shut up.”

Beneath my veil, my jaw dropped. 

“It's all a farce,” Praecisius said, flourishing his staff at the walls, the pillars of oil, my sacramental garments. “It's all a ploy, you fool. You are not just an object, but a game piece. I move you, and you move money. You play the part believably because you believe in it, but merely a part it remains.”

“Blasphemy! I will tell the others. And if the priests will not listen, then I will tell the acolytes! The sister temples! Your treachery will be known and you will be ousted.”

Praecisius laughed. “Wouldn't you rather keep your comfortable lifestyle? It's a very harsh world out there, dear one, and you have _no_ idea how it works. Keep playing your part and I'll give you a cut of the profit.”

“How _dare_ you-”

“If you don't like that proposal, other arrangements can be made.” He eyed me, sizing me up. “I know a clinic where I can instill in you a different attitude.”

I sputtered. His words were utter nonsense. I could not believe them as he spoke them. “You would _change_ a most sacred creation of Primus?!”

“Oh, yes. You would be the Window to _My_ Will.” 

“I am perfect! Forged by His hand!” I flourished my robes in disgust. “You shall never have me at your will.”

He laughed, haughty, ugly. “No one is perfect, dear one! Least of all you, who wears your birth defect on your face!”

“ _Birth defect?!_ ” Anger surged through me. I tore my veil off. “My beauty is _divine!_ And-” 

Praecisius scoffed. “Divine? Emīror was demented enough to believe in this bullshit cult he invented. He did not touch your face out of reverence. I do not suffer from the same delusions. I never touch you out of respect for _myself_. Do you want to know why he mandated you wear a veil? It's not because you're sacred and must be hidden away. You are _hideous_. You are nothing but an object, an ugly plaything for the rich and idle. I suppose I can't blame you for holding yourself up so high- we did place you on that pedestal, after all. But every mech eventually falls.”

The insults crushed my spark. “S- such lies! You have wounded me. You are _unworthy._ You are _despicable!_ ”

“Hah! Those words are, in fact, the truest things I've ever said to you. Object.”

“I will summon the priests! I will call in the whole Order!” I turned towards the door.

Praecisius lunged for me. He was much bigger and stronger than I, but he lacked my grace and speed. His first footstep landed on my discarded veil. He slipped. I dodged out of his reach and he slammed into a pillar. The bowl on top spun, tipped, and emptied its sacred oil over him.

He sneered as he stood, oil dripping down his face. He seethed with anger, his forearms partially transforming in and out as he tried to shed the oil. As his plating shifted, his joints and inner workings were made visible. They flashed gold and silver. “My finest robes. You will regret that!”

“What would you do?” I said, backing away. “You would not dare strike me.” His staff's blade sparkled in the firelight. I thought of Sheen and realized immediately that he would. Fear gripped me.

“I dare say I will not strike you. I will _shatter_ you,” he said. “You are mine. You _belong_ to me.”

“I belong to none but myself!” 

Praecisius laughed and lunged again. I ducked under the staff and threw myself to the side. Praecisius snarled but was too heavy to stop himself in time. He slammed into one of the pillars of fire. Its neglected, brittle structure collapsed. The sacred oil that had soaked into his robes burst into flames. He screamed.

I ran over to the next pillar and dumped its oil into the fire. Praecisius screamed again. He rolled on the floor until his robes had been reduced to char. But still he burned; the sacred oil had found its way into his seams. Praecisius crawled towards me, arms and legs transforming in and out, flames and liquified gold spurting with each movement. His mouth had melted open, a permanent scream. Pain and anger poured out of him in waves.

But still he crawled. I had never before seen such a gory, horrific sight. What manner of greed or obsession fueled him, I could not say, but it was terrifying to behold. 

I shivered, spark tumbling in my chest. I retrieved the staff from the floor and held it firmly. With a prayer, I swung. The sickle went through Praecisius's nose and out the other side. When I pulled the blade out, several of its black gems caught on the ragged edges of his melting face. I yanked the staff to dislodge it. The gems broke off and tumbled back into the hollow of Praecisius's helm.

I backed away, prayers for forgiveness already at my lips. But I had no time. Still, he came, choking on jewels and reaching for me. I kicked him into the flames and hit him with the staff over and over. “How dare you! How _dare_ you treat me so shamefully!” My breaths were ragged, my face hot. Soot and smoke filled the air, stung my eyes. Praecisius stopped moving just as I heard footsteps behind me. I turned.

The temple's ensemble of priests had come into the room and were staring. In that moment I saw them in a new light- for what they were- avaricious, repugnant. Their plating was adorned with inlaid gems and gold. No such ornamentation had been done under Emīror. Small moments from the recent past flickered through my mind. Acolytes' eyes, faded and hungry. Pilgrims emptying their frayed purses into the outstretched palms of the priests. Ledgers and agreements and contracts signed with blood. Their thunderous silence after the Oblectamentum. Their backs turned to me. Liars and abusers, _all of them_.

“Dear one?”

“What has he done!”

I ran for the nearest column and once behind it, went invisible. Then I ran to the next column over.

“What was that? Did you see that?”

“Was that the ghost?”

“Shut up, you fool. Where has he gone?”

“Behind that pillar!”

“Praecisius! Dear Primus, he's dead!”

The group ran as one to the pillar they thought I was behind. I tipped another bowl of sacred oil over and it became a fiery snake whose bite they could not escape. Their fine robes caught fire. The conflagration sent waves of heat throughout the room. The very air itself seemed ablaze. I ran, pushing pillars down as I went. Fire and oil, oil and fire. The inner sanctum roared like a furnace when I opened the doors.

I stumbled out into the great hall and pulled the heavy doors shut behind me. I stared at them, panting, my robes flowing, visible, around me. Smoke poured out from under the doors. I heard them screaming on the other side. I heard their eyes burst and their biolights crack. I heard them curse me, scream my epithets, damn me to The Pit. Something smashed into the doors.

I had only a split second to make a decision. I did not hesitate.

I slid Praecisius's staff through the handles so the doors could not be forced open. I listened, in shock, as their screams crescendoed and then died away again.

Sheen turned the corner and, seeing my floating robes wreathed in smoke, shrieked.

I ran.

~~

“You killed them?” Flatline glanced at the monitors above Mirage. They registered a slight stress response.

.:All of them died, yes. But their fate was sealed by their own greed: true sacred oil is very expensive. This is because it is blended with impurities so it will burn at extremely high temperatures. Temperatures much higher than our pillar flames. Obviously, we would not have had a room full of fire and oil otherwise! But the sacred oil had long been sold off, replaced by a cheap mixture that burned fast and hot. The emergency water system had likewise rusted away and never been repaired. And, perhaps most damning, the priests had replaced swaths of their natural bodies with precious metals, so heavy and cumbersome to move around in:.

“That's- wow.”

.:The acolytes who rushed to the scene reported that the fire had been started by a ghost. There were pictures of the aftermath in the news I saw later. The priests were a mangled mess, fused together. Arms reaching out, twisted metals of every kind studded with sooty jewels. Mangled faces, broken eyes. It was _horrific_ :.

“And you're the one who did it.”

.:I am the one who spilled their dirty oil and fire:. corrected Mirage. .:I do not have any regrets:.

“Wow. You _melted_ them.”

.:As if you have not done worse:.

“I have,” said Flatline. He laid his hand on his chest, over his spark. “I'm living proof of mechs doing worse. But I regret the things I did.”

.:The situations are quite dissimilar, wouldn't you agree?:.

“Yes, but. _Melting_. Just hits a little too close to home.”

.:Flatline:. sent Mirage, .:it wasn't a very good home, was it?:.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words and names taken from Latin:
> 
> Emīror: to marvel at
> 
> Praecisius (from _praeceps_ ): violent, dangerous
> 
> Oblectamentum: delight, pleasure, entertainment, enjoyment, recreation


	10. The Dumpster Story

.:Looking back on the memories of my temple life, I remember the events very clearly, but I cannot remember how... how I _felt,_ other than those grievously stand-out moments. Or rather, I _can_ remember, but it is as if I moved through life in a disconnected haze. I look back and wonder how I didn't see the acolytes' pain before it was pointed out to me, or the state of disrepair of the temple. I look back and I wonder why... why I didn't _see_ that. I think that I was held in a purposeful state of ignorance. I was told I was an object, so I thought I truly was, and I acted accordingly. Something to that effect. I was... ignorant? Or is that just an excuse for an astounding self centeredness?:.

Flatline shrugged. “I dunno. I feel like you want me to tell you the answer, but I don't know it. If you're looking for some kinda absolution, though... you _did_ grow up in unique circumstances. Even us warborns got proper social programming installed upon construction. _None_ of us were put on pedestals and asked to perform quite the way you were.” Flatline set the needle down. “We're about 50% done. Would you like to take a break?”

.:I feel alright:.

“Well, I need one,” said Flatline. He stood and got himself a drink. The small plates in his torso rippled as he stretched. “What did you do after you ran away from the temple?”

.:That is a long story, indeed! I can tell you an abridged version, if you like. It is a much happier story than the previous one:.

“Go for it.”

.:Very well. After I escaped, I quickly learned that Praecisius was right about one thing...:.

~~

The world was cruel and I had no idea how it worked. The city sector in the temple's immediate vicinity was poor and superstitious. Many were disturbed by my glass face when I begged for help. Some mechs were quite cruel! Yelling insults, spitting curses. I asked for help at food places – politely! eloquently! - but none took pity on me. They chased me out. 

_Every_ person I encountered was cold, emotionless, lacking in life in a way that I could not define. It unnerved me.

I abandoned my robes, torn and dirty as they were, and took to staying invisible. I resorted to stealing or pulling energon from the trash, my tanks churning with disgust and self pity. Within just a few days, my plating was dull and grimy, my spirits low. My intakes, my vents, my joints- never had they been in the company of pollution and dust. I felt the particles grinding into and clogging my body.

I didn't have a citizen ID, so I could not log onto the local subspace network. I caught the news in whispers in restaurants, parking lots, public transportation: the priests in The Order had died in the blaze. We were described as a cult. I was listed among the missing as “Religious Assistant To The High Priest.” Fortunately, the only photograph they had of me was in my most ostentatious robes and veil. 

I was wanted for questioning. 

I kept well-away from patrolling officers and heavily populated areas of the city. I was not sure who I could trust. I knew there was a sister temple in the city, but that was where Praecisius had transferred from. I did not think it would be wise to approach them. Perhaps one of the older pilgrims- the theater owners? The librarian? They had been among the most demonstrably devout, but I had visited them long ago, with Emīror. I couldn't remember what, exactly, their names were or where they were located. I didn't know if they would recognize me without my sacred attire. Should I tell them my story? Perhaps they would take me in, as they had offered at Emīror's funeral?

Or should I try to start over?

As I wandered, invisibly, I realized that this newfound ability was my greatest asset. I had lost all my social standing and had, unfortunately, run away without the foresight to get my treasures from my chambers. Where could I go to take advantage of my unique ability, as well as learn more about The Order? Praecisius's insults reverberated through my processor. Had it all been a sham? Had my entire life been dedicated to a lie? Had I really been a game piece, a plaything?

I knew of the Jhiaxian Academy of Advanced Technology because several of its board members were in The Order. They had a deep interest in the Academy for one reason: it took in outliers. I had been there once, just before Emīror died, for a blessing. I knew it to be a place of learning, whose attendees would perhaps be more sympathetic to my plight than an uncultured mech. I also recognized that my invisibility might qualify me as an outlier. I wasn't sure how to approach the institution- I was dirty and my face, as it were, was known to a few of its board members. I would need to make myself both presentable and unrecognizable, and, most importantly, impress them.

I am, and always have been, very patient. I decided to observe the Academy and try to learn as much about it as I could before attempting to enter it. This instinct to quietly observe and learn served me well as a spy later, as you might imagine.

I ducked under the fence around the back of the Academy complex and stood at the edge of a small enclosure. I was invisible, of course, silently watching. There was a commotion at the side door of the nearest building, an explosion, and the door burst open! An empurata victim ran out, screaming, his back end on fire. Smoke poured out of the door, from whence also flew a black and purple plane, who proceeded to land, transform, clutch his knees and laugh so hard he fell over. The poor empurata fellow ran in circles before slamming himself to the ground bottom-first and writhing til the flames went out. 

They exchanged unpleasantries, after which the empurata fellow returned to the building. The plane mech rose from the ground, still laughing heartily. Then he abruptly froze in place. 

He looked directly at me.

I was shocked. I looked down to confirm that I was, indeed, still invisible. No one had ever detected me before. 

“Who're you?” he called, and began a swift approach. I backed away. “Wait!”

I did not care to wait. I crept backwards, and even as he ran towards me, I slipped away. He was too big to fit under the fence as I had done. He crashed into it, one arm outstretched, eyes scanning. It was as if he could see me, but also not. He could sense approximately where I was, but not precisely. I backed away, further and further, and stood beside a power source for that block, praying it would disguise whatever it was of me that he could sense. Eventually he cursed and returned to the main building.

“Why didn't he just warp?”

.:Excuse me?:.

“That was Skywarp, right? Why didn't he just warp over to where you were hiding? Fences don't hold Skywarp in.”

.:I discovered the reason later. But shall we not get ahead of ourselves?:.

“No, I guess we shall not. Do go on,” said Flatline, in a light mockery of Mirage's accent.

.:Thank you...:.

I spent a week avoiding the Academy. The encounter with the plane mech worried me immensely. I slowly explored that sector of the city, weighing my options and catching the news where possible. 

Police had not made much progress in their investigation. They had found my abandoned robes and not much else. The Order's isolation was apparently working in my favor. There was a _hefty_ reward for anyone who knew anything- especially about me and several of the acolytes who had run from the scene. 

I resolved to be more careful with how I traveled and what evidence I left behind. It became more difficult to do so, however. I felt weak. My systems, unaccustomed to such a harsh lifestyle, suffered. My tanks churned for the first time with hunger, a most dreadful pain. My joints were stiff with dirt, my lines heavy with low quality energon. My dreams were filled with smoke and flames.

I weighed the loyalty of the most faithful pilgrims to Primus against their loyalty to money. The experience with Praecisius had left me jaded. Wandering without my veil made me anxious and jumpy. I was overly suspicious of anyone in the vicinity.

I concluded that those I knew from temple life would turn me in for that large reward.

It was firmly time to start anew.

It seemed that the Academy might be the best option, after all, if I could escape the notice of the board members. And that plane mech. I concentrated my efforts on its buildings from that point on, observing and watching. There was a maintenance bridge under which I slept, which was built into a hill that rose up to the kitchen complex. I memorized the schedule on which the kitchen workers brought out their scraps. There was a large dumpster nearby. I scrounged, pitifully.

I always ventured out in the afternoon. Night would seem a wiser time, but it was too dark for me to see properly. Afternoon seemed to be when everyone was occupied with other tasks. 

One fateful day, after carefully scanning the area, I edged up to the dumpster and raised its lid. There were some nearly untouched cubes of food towards the back. I stretched as far as I could, but could not quite reach. I hefted myself up and jumped into the dumpster. Just as I grabbed the tantalizing energon, there was a _click_ and the lid slammed down.

I gasped in the sudden darkness. I rushed to the edge and pushed up. No luck. It was locked.

Then a powerful light, purple and white, came through the cracks at the edges of the dumpster. I heard footsteps and a familiar voice approach.

“Gotcha!” Laughter. “I know you're in there! And unless you've got a talent like me, you ain't gettin' out on your own.”

My lines ran cold. It was the plane mech from before. I had seen what this cruel creature had done to his brethren. What would he do to me? I was caught and tired and hungry. And dirty. I did not think I could fight him. 

_Bang bang_

“You're still in there. I know it. I'm gonna open the lid and you come out and we're cool, okay? Everything is cool. I ain't gonna hurt ya.”

A wedge of darkness moved and the sky's light streamed in. The mech peered inside and grinned. “I know you're there,” he said. “I can see you!”

I shook with fear, holding my arms around me, still invisible. Finally, I asked, “How?”

The grin widened. “You're like me. We move in the warpy space, right? Between the layers. You're like a goddamn comet in the night.”

I shook my head. None of what he said made sense.

He swung his arm into the dumpster, reaching for me, his eyes narrowing, focusing and unfocusing on the area around me. “C'mon, dammit. Get outta there. You're in a dumpster, mech. You can only go up from here.”

I thought about how despicable the whole situation was- that I should be in this foul place, being yelled at by an outsider. For a moment, the comforts of The Order flickered in my spark. Soft, clean cloth. Exquisite food. Acolytes to care for me. Emīror would have been disgusted to see me like this. If he were still alive.

But he wasn't. And it was just me, and I had no idea what to do. 

I moved cautiously from one end of the dumpster to the other, always staying just out of reach of the mech's outstretched hand. I made my best calculation, feinted right, and jumped for the edge of the lid, where I was instantly caught.

“Gotcha! Whoa-” he clung on to me tightly. “You're way lighter than I thought. Stop squirming-”

I wriggled and pushed and punched but he was bigger than me, and well-fed and maintained. His paint was immaculate and shining, his wings flashing in the sunlight. His eyes were bright, his smile wicked. He held my entire body with a casual ease I did not appreciate. He had the same coldness about him that everyone else in the city had. I couldn't quite grasp it. His face was expressive, but he somehow didn't seem to exude actual _emotion_.

He growled. “Stop that!” He shook me, taking the opportunity to run his free hand around my body. “What's that, wheels? Your alt mode a car?”

“Unhand me!”

He laughed. “Who says that?! 'Unhand me.' No one really says that!” He awkwardly held me by my waist, squinting and blinking at me, as if staring into the sun. “I'm gonna set you down. You _can_ turn visible, right? I know you come here to steal our scraps. Show yourself, and I'll give you something real to eat.” He paused. “Did you like that? 'Show yourself'? Eh?”

As promised, he let go. I slumped to the ground. I was so hungry, the mere mention of food ripped away any last shred of defiance. I rested for a moment, my fingers trailing through the fine dust, and gathered my strength. Then I stood, squared my shoulders back, and shimmered into view.

“Oh, _Primus,_ ” he said, looking me up and down. 

I stole a second to take a look, myself, not having been visible to anyone in days. I was in a pitiful state. Filthy, paint scratched and gone, nicks and dings everywhere, burns and scrapes from my escape, and of course, my veil gone, my face, oh, _my face_ -

“Your _face,_ ” he said, his own bright with surprise. He stepped forward and reached for me. “What... are you?”

“I am a glass-faced mech,” I snapped. I pushed his hand away.

“Wow.”

He was genuinely stunned. That arm reached out again and before I could stop him, he _touched me_. Touched me! I was so shocked, I froze. He touched my face with the tips of his fingers, my cheek, my jaw. Shivers ran down my body. _No one had ever purposefully touched my face._ Not even the priests who took anything else they wanted from me.

“I am the Vessel of Primus!” I cried, slapping his hand away from my lips. “A Window to His Will! A physical manifestation of His glory!”

“Oh, you _are_ ,” he said. He looked me up and down again. “You got any other glass parts?”

“Contemptuous!” I knew I couldn't outrun him, weak as I was, and I knew he could still sense me when I was invisible, but I faded anyway.

“No, wait! Wait wait wait.” He fumbled around at his waist and a cube appeared from seemingly nowhere. “Here, look. Energon. Like I promised. Come back.”

I did not waste time wondering where it had been conjured from. I snatched the cube out of his hands and reappeared. It was a gel-like substance, highly concentrated. I turned away from him and ate it noisily, not caring to be polite. It was delicious. The most delicious thing I had ever tasted. It was not nearly as fine as the worst thing served at the temple. But on that day, it was the finest thing I had ever eaten. I even licked my fingers.

I turned back to him, covering my face with my hand. “No one is supposed to see me,” I said. 

He muttered something.

“Pardon?”

“Nuthin,” he said. “Uhhh, my name is Skywarp. What do I do now? Do I bow or something? I've never met a window of Primus before.” He performed a bow so artless I burst out laughing. He smiled. “You got a name?”

I hesitated. A _name_. Within The Order I had no name. I was referred to by my exulted position. A position which, I reminded myself with a bit of annoyance, I was supposed to be pretending I never had.

“Mirage,” I said. I placed my other hand over my spark and inclined my head. It felt strange on my lips. It was the first time I had spoken it.

“Mirage,” he repeated. He said it as one would say any name. And it suddenly sounded normal. Not familiar, but not alien. Something I felt I could quickly adapt to. “Perfect.” He copied my greeting without an ounce of grace. “Are you going to come to the Academy? Since you can go invisible? They'll love that. They love me, because I can go anywhere. I mean, they'll probably love you, too. Not as much, though. But invisibility is real good.” He held his thumb up to me. “Way better than making loud noises or whispering at light bulbs to pop 'em.”

“I would like to attend but there are complications.”

“They'd crawl on their knees and treads for someone like you. Will you move that hand! I already saw you.”

“You don't understand,” I said, sadness welling within me. “No one's supposed to see me. The Will of Primus says-”

“The will of Skywarp says you're fine.” 

“I ought to go-”

“No! No.” Skywarp stepped closer. I scarcely came up to his chest. He was black and so glossy, I shrank back from my reflection. He stretched his wings, blocking the blue smear of the sky. “You can't go.”

“I can do as I please,” I said, but my voice was shaky.

“I don't know where you came from, or what you are, but you're the only other mech I've ever met who shows up in warpy space. You're the only one, Mirage. I need to know why!”

“I have not the _slightest_ idea what you're talking about.”

He threw his arms out in an exasperated motion. “I'm Skywarp, right? Watch.” 

VOP!! 

In a blinding flash, he was gone, and then in another, he reappeared behind me. He tapped me on the shoulder. I yelped and turned around. “I can go wherever I want,” Skywarp said. “And when you do that kind of thing, when you rip reality apart and travel between places, you start to see how it's constructed. There's layers to existence, ya know? Like Primus wasn't sure what kind of Cybertron to make, so he made a few, and they're all spinning around in space in the same location, but not in the same _spot_. And I'm the only one who can slip between them. I move out of our Cybertron, into another, and then back again. Except it's more complicated than that. But once you've done it enough, you start to live between the layers. You get to know the reality in things, and see things, and feel things.” He leaned down until his nose nearly touched mine. This close I saw that his eyes were reddish purple. “Mirage, when you're invisible, you shine like the light of my warps. When you move, you leave a trail.”

“I don't understa-”

“And you're the only one!” He straightened and gestured excitedly. “So it must mean something! I've been waiting for you to come back, waiting to see if we'd explode when standing next to each other. That's why I didn't chase you before. I didn't know what would happen. But nothing happened just now!”

“I don't-”

“You don't see the world differently, while invisible? Never seen all the paths you could take? All the holes in reality?”

“No! The world doesn't change, just I do!”

“Ha, I don't believe that,” he said. “We'll figure it out.” Skywarp glanced at the main building. “If you don't wanna come in now, that's fine. But if you don't have anywhere else you can go,” he looked meaningfully at the dumpster, “and I _don't think that you do_ , it's probably a good idea. You can stay with me until you uncomplicate things.”

I reflected on the bizarre interaction. He had trapped me, touched me, and confused me. He had also attempted to return a formal greeting, given me food, and offered a way into the Academy. “I don't... I don't know,” I said. 

“Let's meet back here tomorrow,” he said, smiling. “I have a fire to put out. But tomorrow, I'll bring you some more energon. You think about it. Okay?”

“Alright.”

Skywarp turned to go, but then looked back. “Uh, by the way, your field is wild.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Your field. When you were in that dumpster, I could've found you by fear alone.”

“My _what?_ ”

“Your field.” Skywarp pushed out with amusement, and then I suddenly understood. The reason he had seemed so cold and flat in expression before; his field had been drawn in close to himself. 

“You can control those?” 

“Obviously! Where were you raised?”

“The Order of the Will of Primus,” I said. “I didn't know there was a word for that. We never control ours. It's always there. Always on. An extension of body language.” I concentrated, then shakily pulled my field in. 

“Whoa,” Skywarp said. “Really? You got mechs walking around with their fields banging into each other all day?” He shuddered.

“Of course.” I pushed in and out and in and he laughed.

“I can feel your wonder,” Skywarp said. “It's hilarious! And now irritation.”

An idea struck me. “So if I were to hold in my... my field, and go invisible... would anyone but you be able to find me?”

Oh, how he grinned. “I doubt it.”

~~

.:Reflecting back on that scene, I do think The Order purposefully neglected to explain fields to me:. 

Flatline nodded.

.:That whole time, my emotions were as transparent to them as everything else. They never told me I even had the capacity to lie! That excruciatingly private moment of the Oblectamentum was broadcast for all to feel. How embarrassed I was, when I realized that later. Another form of control:.

“Yeah. Is that why you hold it in so much now? As an act of rebellion?”

.:Yes, I suppose. That and it was essential to retract it during all the years of spying. I am more comfortable withdrawn, these days:.

~~

Skywarp met me there the next day with energon and a proposition: he would take me inside the building, help me get cleaned up and stable, and then introduce me to the school staff when I was ready. “You're sure to be accepted,” he said. “As long as we can get you presentable.”

It didn't take me long to make a decision. I had nowhere to go. I never wanted to see the underside of a bridge again.

Skywarp put his arms around me. “Go invisible,” he said, sounding giddy. His field shot out little spurts of excitement. I did so and braced myself. “Some people feel sick when they teleport. Try not to think about it.”

VOP!!

One second we were outside in the sun, and the next, we were in a cramped room. I didn't have any time to digest how the journey felt, however, because Skywarp let me go and _screamed_ , covering his face with his hands. I stumbled forward, catching myself on a desk, my processor reeling. 

Skywarp fell to his knees, swearing and rubbing his eyes. His wings jerked in different directions, as if being electrically shocked. I had never seen a flier's wings do that before.

I took several deep breaths and returned to visibility. My systems were shuddering, pinging with confused and frantic alerts. My head _hurt_ like someone had bisected my brain with a laser scalpel. I groaned. “What happened?”

“Blinded!” He reached out and felt at the air. “Teleporting you while invisible... bad idea. Like staring into the sun! Must be something about us interacting in warpy space.” He flailed. “Where are you?!”

“Here,” I said. I touched his hand with a single finger. He grabbed me. 

“Oh my god!” he shouted as he pulled me close. I struggled away but he gripped me tight. Skywarp's field was sharp with panic. “What if I can never see again!” He shook me, his eyes unfocused and white. “Mirage!!”

“I'm sorry!” I pushed against him. “Let me go! My head, it hurt my head-”

“What am I gonna do?! You'll have to be my eyes!”

“That is a preposterous idea!”

“ _Mirage!!_ ”

Skywarp was too hysterical to be reasoned with. “Try resetting them!”

Skywarp blinked frantically and the pale gradually brightened to reddish-purple. “Oh, thank Primus.” He released me and stood, rubbing his eyes. “Wow, that sucked. That _sucked._ That hurt so fuckin' bad. Okay, new rule. You aren't allowed to be invisible when I warp us places.”

“That suits me fine. Are we going to be warping often?” I held the sides of my helm and moaned. “I do not care for the idea.”

“You're ground-bound; you're way slower than me flying. We might as well warp.” Skywarp muttered some more. “Anyway. You did good for your first warp! I caught your curiosity and disorientation, but you didn't get sick. Good job. Other than blinding me.”

“I didn't mean to! I don't even know how that happened!” 

Skywarp shrugged. “Warpy stuff.”

The air currents in the room brushed against my cheeks. I covered my face with my hand instinctively. “My head hurts.”

“Really?” Skywarp reached for my helm. I stepped back. “Er. Okay. Warp sickness doesn't last long. It'll wear off soon. Til then, I'll give you the tour!” Skywarp gestured around the room. “Welcome! There's the door, there's the window. The berth below it. Mini little desk, I never use it. Some shelves. One chair. If I stand in the middle I can touch both walls like this.” He demonstrated the width of the room by standing sideways; his wingtips brushing one wall, his outstretched fingers touching its opposite. “It's small but it's good. Cuz I live here. And now you do, too!”

I glanced around. It was a functional space, no decoration, save some blurry, taped-up holo pics. The walls were cheaply constructed, the furniture even more so. The bed, beneath its wrinkled blankets, had two thin holes in it. I stared at them. Like much of what had happened recently, they made no sense. “Won't I get my own chambers?”

“Uh, you mean a room? Probably. Once we introduce you to the board and you're accepted as a student.”

I stiffened. Someone on the board was bound to notice me. I wondered how recognizable I was without my robes and sacred gold markings and with my etchings hidden away. “Would it be possible to restrict my viewing to individuals who do not belong to The Order?”

Skywarp shrugged. “Who's in The Order?”

I listed the names I knew. He thought for a moment. “Yeah, I think there are a couple mechs who aren't in it. It's gonna be a few days, though.”

“Why?”

“We gotta get you cleaned up and think of a backstory! That's always the best part. _My_ backstory is great. Thundercracker helped me think of it. He _loves_ stories. You'll meet him.” Skywarp shadowed his eyes and mimed looking out over an ocean. He spun his turbines to mimic the sound of its breezes. “I was forged in The Great Meteor Fall and raised by pirates. We terrorized the Sea of Rust until my captain was betrayed by one of the crew! Infighting led to our capture during our next raid. Our fates hung in the balance in the courts! A few members of the Academy board were on my jury. They recognized my unique ability as that of an outlier!”

“What really happened?”

“Pff. Con'd cold in Factory 227B and used as freight transport until my first teleport. Then I got sent here. Where I do freight transport. With Thundercracker. But! They just have to do a few more tests and then they're gonna help me develop my warping ability further.” He stood proudly. “I have a fifteen mile limit, but they think that I can warp _anywhere_ , if I work on it more.”

~~

I was in rough shape, still carrying the soot of the fire on my body and quite hungry. Skywarp disappeared a few times to retrieve food for me and check the wash racks. Once they were empty, he warped me there. We were both reluctant, but I was sick of being filthy and he insisted there was no easy way for us to sneak through the hallways. Most fortunately, this warp turned out to be painless for both of us. It confirmed his suspicion that me being invisible while warping was what had caused the trouble. We both promised never to make _that_ mistake again.

There was an extremely embarrassing moment when he had to show me how to operate the shower equipment, as the acolytes had always bathed me, and I had never done the task myself. He took great amusement in it, to which I turned invisible, intending to cause him discomfort with my apparently blinding light in “warpy space.” But the instant I disappeared, he fell to the floor in laughter, slapping the puddles there, splashing the walls with water. Just when he seemed to calm, he would look up at me through the steam and fall back into hysterics.

I found the whole display extremely aggravating. It was impossible to wash with dignity before him. Finally, my annoyance burst out. “What?!” 

Skywarp did not answer. I believe he would have carried on laughing there on that soapy floor forever, if another mech didn't happen to walk in. He was a tall flier, blue and white, and a similar build to Skywarp. He carried himself with an affect of affronted dignity. I froze immediately. Water bounced off my invisible frame. I was not sure if he would notice me in the shower stream.

He glanced at Skywarp, rolled his eyes, and walked out.

That, at least, prompted Skywarp to rise. He eased off the laughter as I turned visible again. 

“What was so funny?” I demanded.

“Heh,” he said. “Don't you know what happens when you shine a bright light in water?”

I scoffed. “No? What kind of foolish question is that?”

“Hah! Wow. Okay, guess you didn't get any remedial schooling in that cult of yours.” Skywarp flicked his hand through the water, throwing drops around. “When you shine a bright light through water drops, you get a rainbow.”

I stared at him.

“You know? A rainbow? The thing with all the colors-”

“I know what a rainbow is,” I snapped. The full implication of what he said hit me. I groaned.

~

“You... you tried to blind him with _rainbows,_ ” said Flatline.

.:A veritable _explosion_ of rainbows. From his point of view, I had crawled out of a dumpster and detonated into rainbows at the first touch of water:.

“That's...” Flatline's field flashed with a complex mix of laughter/absurdity. “That's the most _ridiculous_ thing I've ever heard. And I once attended a medical lecture given by Spinister.”

.:I would be bowing my head in shame now, if I could:.

“Don't blame ya, mech,” said Flatline. “Ohhhhhhh, sweet Primus. I think I would've _died_ on the spot.” He shook his head. 

.:The laws of physics are merciless:.

“They are, heh.” Flatline wiped the needle clean. “Excruciating as that was for ya, it does reveal something interesting about 'warpy space.'”

.:Oh?:.

“Yeah. You didn't see the rainbows, right? And neither did the mech that walked in. That was... oh, what's his name, Third Starscream-”

.:Thundercracker:.

“Yeah, Thundercracker. Neither of you saw the rainbows, right?”

.:Correct:.

“But Skywarp saw them. He saw the light from warpy space interacting with real life water. Real dimension water. What should we call it? Reality water?”

.:Skywarp didn't have a special name for our dimension:.

“Anyway. Huh. So, things, or at least light, from warpy space can leak out into our space and physically react with it. At least, for mechs already acquainted with warpy space. That's... really interesting.”

There was a long silence, and then, .:it is:.

~~

I was deeply embarrassed by the shower incident and resolved to be more careful with my invisibility around Skywarp. We returned to his room without incident. He gave me a tablet with local subspace access. The search history was already full of results on The Order of the Will of Primus- Skywarp had been reading up. The accounts were few, repeated over and over by different sources, but shocking. Accusations of it being a cult. Descriptions of abuse, neglect, slavery. It was too much to take in all at once. I could barely process it within the context of my life. Especially of my last days in the temple. I set the tablet aside. 

“All done?”

“For now.” I looked forlornly at the tablet. “I don't know what to think.”

“Ah, don't worry about it. Just do what I do: deal with it later! Now, it's bed time.” Skywarp grinned. He tapped the wall by the window and it shuddered closed. He sat on the berth and patted the spot next to him. “C'mon over.”

“I prefer to sleep in alt mode,” I said. “Lying on my back is very uncomfortable.” I pointed to the axels and tires on my back.

“What about sleeping on your stomach?”

“I _suppose._ ”

“Excellent!” Skywarp flopped onto the berth and stretched. His wings fit into the holes that I had previously noted. He ran a hand down his chest. “Ahh. Well?”

“You are taking up the entire berth,” I said. “There is not enough room for us both.”

“Oh no!” He put his hands to his face, an exaggerated expression of shock. “Whatsoever shall we do?”

I looked around the room. There certainly wasn't enough space for me to transform. “I am not a fool,” I said. “I know you want me to sleep on you. But, I have never done such a thing. I'm not sure I want to do it now.”

He rolled his eyes. “It's me or the floor. And I've never washed it.” He tucked a pillow between his chest and the wall. “Here. I promise I won't touch your face. I won't hurt you. You survived the shower, didn't you?”

“All but my dignity, surely.”

He snickered.

I squinted at the floor. I couldn't ascertain its cleanliness without getting closer. Though it certainly could not be any worse than the places I had slept since my escape... but I was clean now, and it had been an emotionally trying event to become so. I _hated_ being filthy. I had every intention of staying clean. 

I thought of the acolytes awkwardly entwined together at night. All save Sheen. I must confess... I was curious why such an embrace was so alluring for them. “Very well.”

Skywarp grinned. I crawled up onto the berth and squeezed next to him. He turned slightly as I curled around winglets and various parts of his alt mode. My wheels bumped against the wall. After some clumsy maneuvering, I hooked one leg over his thighs so my shin plating did not tangle in his knees. It was not _entirely_ uncomfortable. I gently laid my arm across his torso, as there was nowhere else to place it. “You are warm.”

“Yeah. Well.” He wriggled an arm under my alt mode pieces and rested his hand against my back. “It's not every night I have a beautiful mech in my bed.”

I buried my face in the pillow. “I have never shared a berth,” I said, voice muffled.

“Never?!” His field pulsed with smugness.

“Of course not! I am the Window to His Will. Pilgrims journeyed across the planet to witness Primus's glory through me. I am... was... afforded every luxury.”

“Hah! Not a lot of luxury here at the Academy. But better than sleeping under a bridge.” 

“We shall see.”

Skywarp gave a verbal command and the room went dark. The glow of his biolights and eyes intensified, matching reddish purple light. They were _exquisite_. They highlighted the curve of his face, the shape of his shoulders. Enchanted, I traced the biolights on his chest with my fingers. He inhaled sharply. “Stunning!” I said. “I have never seen a color like this before!” 

“Wow! Right to it. And thanks. It's a rare color.” He watched my fingers bend and move. The fine, red biolights in my joints reflected on the shine of his plating. “What does Primus look like? Must be a good show if pilgrims journeyed from across the planet.”

“It's not- it's not like that,” I said. “He doesn't appear in full. Just His Will, shining through me.” I made a fist and quickly opened it to symbolize the burst of light. 

“Sounds weird, no offense. Does it hurt?”

“No. It does not hurt.” I pushed some unpleasant thoughts aside. “When done properly, it does not hurt.”

“Is all that window stuff- whoa.” He had finally turned his attention away from my hand to look at me. I shrank back, knowing what he saw. Skywarp _stared_ at my face. _Stared_ at me. Stared _through_ me.

It was a long, breathless moment. 

I didn't know how he felt about it- he pulled his field away quickly and reset his vocalizer. “...that's stuff The Order told you?”

“Yes, my whole life. Raised in it. Exulted and lauded.”

“The Order that you ran away from?”

“Yes.”

“The Order whose temple burned down, all its priests found dead, melted into a pile together? No witnesses?”

My lines ran cold. Our embrace, as it were, suddenly felt dangerous. I tensed, ready to spring away or go invisible, even though I knew both were futile.

“Kind of an interesting coincidence,” he said softly, “that those mechs all died and then you showed up here.”

“Are you going to...”

“To?”

“Turn me in?”

Skywarp laughed. “Should I? Pro tip: even suggesting that is an implication. Always deny everything.” He shifted and pulled me closer. His field was calm, tinged with amusement and arousal. “You're scared, I can feel it. I ain't gonna turn you in to authorities, if that's what you're worried about. I'd rather have you around here.” He stroked my helm, but as promised, did not touch my face. “Relax. I just wanna know what I'm getting into.”

I could not relax. His touch was _strange_. His words worried me. He could trap me easily, upon threat of collecting that large reward. “Are you going to force me to stay here?” I whispered.

“What? No!” he said. “No one deserves to be forced to stay _here._ Though, I'd _like_ you to stay. Or take me with you if you leave.”

His field did not waver; he was telling the truth. The words shocked me. “Such allegiance,” I said. “We have just met!”

A grin. “Yeah. Imagine that.” He curled his free hand around mine, blocking out the red biolights of my knuckles.

“I don't understand,” I said. “Many have expressed the desire to keep me as their own. But that was after witnessing my connection to Primus. Are you deeply religious? You do not strike me as so.”

“Heh. I hardly understand it, myself. Just go with it.” He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the crest of my helm. “We'll figure it out.” He ran a finger along my axels.

Just like Praecisius had.

Any semblance of ease I felt shattered at this touch. I shuddered and tried to push away, but the wall was right behind me. I was trapped. “No,” I choked out. I couldn't move. I pushed against him, my hand skidding across his glossy, rounded chest. “No!” Panic flashed through me-

“Whoa! What happened? What's wrong?”

“ _Do not touch me like that!_ ”

“I-!” Hurt and confusion barreled through Skywarp's field. He withdrew it. After a long moment, the light of his eyes dulled and pain flashed through him. “Okay. G'night.” Slowly, he extricated his arm from behind my back. He shifted away from me, clamped his hands behind his head and forcefully powered down.

I breathed, unsure of what had just happened. The desperate panic vanished as quickly as it had come. The anxious energy in my lines waxed and waned. I wiggled into the most comfortable position I could, bunching the pillow beneath my face. 

Skywarp's breaths came, long and steady. It was so quiet and still in that room I could sense his spark turn within his chest. I had never felt that in another person before. I had never been this _close_ to someone else before. I moved the pillow aside and laid my audial gently against his chest. I listened to his spark. After a while, I realized I could steady my own to turn with the same rhythm. Despite everything, it was soothing, matching up with him. 

I thought about the distance The Order had always required the acolytes to keep from me, but how they held each other in the night. 

I thought about how much the priests had kept from me- my name, the true nature of emotional expression. I thought of their screams and the fire and the oil. 

I thought of Praecisius and- pushed the memories as far away as I could.

I listened to Skywarp's spark and drifted away.

When I woke, he was gone.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the first chapters I wrote for this story. It remains among my favorites :> “Face The Past” was originally going to be a sequel story entirely centered around Mirage and Flatline and more meant to explore the medical side of the reconstruction than their characters. I didn't initially plan this story to include Skywarp. 
> 
> Skywarp's inclusion was prompted by comments I got on my plotless Mirage/Skywarp ficlets. I was really surprised that people were curious about how the two got together! At that time, I paired them based on their colors and outlier abilities cuz I thought those two things were extremely neat. I had _zero_ thoughts on how they could've gotten together. But people wanted to know! So, I made the decision to explore how they got together in _this_ story. 
> 
> Fortuitously, I decided this very early in this story's planning. [“You got any other glass parts?” was originally asked by Flatline and one of the _first_ sentences written! XD] A shoehorned love interest is one of the most loathsome tropes for me, personally. This might be an entirely unnecessary statement to make, but: Skywarp's inclusion in this fic is one of its core components, just as important as the revelations of Flatline's and Mirage's pasts. In the months I've spent writing and re-reading and re-writing this fic, I've actually grown very, very fond of the pairing. It's my first real OTP! And I have been writing fanfic, in one capacity or another (in various degrees of competency) off and on since the 90's. Transformers finally got me. I love this dang OTP! 
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with this story. I hope it continues to interest and entertain you. More to come :)


	11. Your Presence

Skywarp was distant for the next few days. His working hours were lengthy and he spent nights elsewhere. He warped in just long enough to drop off food and give me a quick greeting. His field was always restrained, almost professional in its presentation. I felt at times relieved to have space, at other times very lonely. 

Skywarp left me access to subspace and I searched daily for news about The Order. 

Sheen had been found, arrested, confessed to the murder of the priests, and granted leniency in exchange for information.

I wondered why she had confessed. It was a false confession, of course. Perhaps she had been coerced. Perhaps she was afraid of the world, afraid she would never find a place in it, different as she was. I had that fear.

Thinking about her inevitably led to memories from temple life.

I found myself performing morning and evening prayers out of habit. The words that once felt so important- words that held the universe together and set the stars in motion- rang hollow. And, indeed, the morning I woke too late to give the dawn prayers, as there were no acolytes to awaken me, the sun rose anyway. My spark ached, that perhaps I _had_ dedicated my entire life to falsehoods rooted in greed and lies. I had been a pawn in it all- innocent myself, perhaps. But, still, manipulated to do harmful deeds on the behalf of superiors who would never appreciate their consequences.

I was unsure where the division of lies and truth lay. It was true that the Will of Primus shone through me. I was the living proof of such! But the running of the temple, the blood on the money... An undercurrent of fear and anxiety spun in the recesses of my spark, never fading.

I desperately sought diversions. 

Skywarp's small desk had two data pads in its drawers. I held them up to my face and read. _Damus's Diary Don't Touch!_ and _How To Get It Up, A Self-Help Book by Windcharger (draft version 3.7)_. I puzzled over these titles. Their contents were even more confusing. 

I returned to searching subspace for my favorite stories: the ballads of ancient Cybertron, the scratchy recordings of lively theater productions and graceful ballets. The old plays were the most precious to me. The comedies- how I laughed! The humor soothed my aching spark. The romances! I read “Circuitous Designs” sixteen times, committing its famously beautiful spark-bearing scene to memory. I scoured the arts with fervor, clamoring for any clues as to how the real world operated. I sprawled on the berth among the blankets, losing myself in fantastical stories.

I scrounged scraps of cloth from the room and tried to tie them around my face. The makeshift veil was only a small comfort and fell off constantly. I became restless and I was tired of eating candy. My tanks churned for a real meal. 

And...

And I was lonely. Even at the temple I never went a full day without seeing another.

The next time Skywarp appeared, I called, “wait!”

He dropped an armful of individually wrapped energon treats on the bed. “Yeah?”

“I feel like... like you're avoiding your room. And me, because I am in it.”

He turned away. “Yeah...”

“Why?”

Skywarp took a deep breath. He fidgeted. He looked everywhere but at me. “Why? I thought... ugh, are we really gonna do this?”

“Do what?” 

“ _Talk_ about... _things_.”

“Yes, of course. How else would we converse?” I said. “Please, if there is a problem, truthfully tell me. I am in dire need of company!”

Skywarp sat down heavily on the bed. He glanced at my makeshift veil. “The other night, when we were together, you touched me...” he traced the biolights on his chest. “I reciprocated,” he waved at my back. “And then something came through your field. Something _awful_. I thought, I dunno...” He squirmed. It seemed he found self-reflection excruciating. “I did something bad. I didn't even have you here _one full day_ and I fucked it up. You hate me now. So, I'm leaving you alone.”

“Oh.” 

He stared at the floor.

“I don't hate you at all,” I said. “Your touch reminded me of something that happened at the temple. It was... deeply hurtful. But the thing that happened was not your fault. I do not object to your presence.”

He snorted, but a hint of a smile curved across his face. His wings opened and closed. “Thanks, I guess. I _definitely_ don't object to your presence.”

“Good! There is no reason for disharmony between us.” I sat next to him on the bed. “In The Order, many things were kept from me. So, I would prefer that you speak your mind freely! I shall do the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“Instead of avoiding me,” I said patiently, “like you have been doing, _tell_ me what the problem is.”

Skywarp's eyes widened. “ _Words?_ ”

“Yes. And to that end, I do have a request.”

“Whazzat?”

I picked up one of the candies. “I appreciate you providing me with these delicious treats,” I said. “But I am very hungry for something more substantial.” 

He grinned and disappeared in a flash of light. I rubbed my eyes. I still wasn't used to that.

A few minutes later he reappeared with an armful of cubes. We had a little picnic on the berth. I reclined on it against the wall, propped up on one elbow. Skywarp pulled the chair up to the other side. He arranged a modest assortment of cubes before us. They were hearty, their flavors simple. Light streamed in through the window and was caught within them, brightening their colors. I broke off small pieces, slipping them under my veil. Despite its plainness, it was quite a pleasant meal. For the first time, I felt a dampening of the fear and anxiety spinning deep in my spark.

“I been wondering,” said Skywarp with his mouth full. “What are those curly marks?” He pointed to my helm.

“Décor, sacred etchings,” I said. “You have a good eye to spot it with the filler in. I have more elsewhere. It is protected with molded plastic.” I dug a finger into my forearm. He winced. I pulled a flexible piece of plastic out of my plating, which exactly mirrored the etching beneath it. “This is a protective filler for the décor.” I held out my arm. “It is very easy for dirt to get in there. The filler prevents that from happening. I only take the plastic out for special occasions.”

Skywarp took my arm. He squinted down at the ornate carvings. “Were you CC'd like this?”

“Oh, no, no. Forged. And this is ritualistic décor, done with a laser scalpel.”

“Whoa,” he said. Skywarp traced the edge of the carvings with a fingertip. “Pretty deep. That must've hurt.”

“It did.” His touch was gentle, sending little shivers along my plating. 

“Why?”

“Because they used a laser scalpel.”

Skywarp pulled my arm closer. “No, I meant, why did they do it?” His fingertip moved backwards along the lines of prayers, pausing at the sharp corners of the carvings. He frowned a little and rubbed them, as if he could smooth them away.

It felt... strange. The acolytes' touches never lingered. “It is beautifying. I am the Window to Primus's Will. I _must_ look the part.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“No, of course not.” 

“That's good. It's nice. I mean, not that they cut you open, but it's pretty.”

I smiled beneath my veil. I wriggled my arm from his grasp and replaced the plastic. It nestled in snugly. The brief exchange had made me even more self-conscious. So did his staring. When Skywarp spoke to me, he looked right at me. “I need a proper veil,” I said. “I must insist. It isn't right for me to walk about uncovered, and this cloth one is of extremely poor construction.”

“The cloth one _you_ made, you mean.”

I ignored that. “I am deeply uncomfortable.”

Skywarp frowned. He thought for a long time. Finally, he said, “I think you would look more conspicuous in a veil. Just tell people you have a glass face. Who cares? No one cares. Some people around here don't even have faces.”

“I care. I... do not wish for my face to be seen.”

More silence. 

“I know I have nothing I can offer you right now in exchange for your help,” I said. “But I really nee-”

“But you're so beautiful,” he blurted out.

I gaped at him.

Skywarp smiled.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I scolded. “Of course I am. And I also feel more comfortable covered, so-”

“But I want to see you,” he said.

I tilted my head at him. “Why should that matter?”

Skywarp growled. “Why shouldn't it?” He looked away. “If you're so special, why should you hide and keep you all to yourself?”

“That's not what it's about,” I said. “It's about _me_ -”

“Is it really, or is it that cult-”

“-and what I feel comfortable doing.” 

He glared at the ground. Anger pierced his normally peaceable field.

“Why are you angry?”

VOP!!

I blinked. Skywarp had disappeared. I glanced around the room, just in case. I pushed my field out, still unsure how to use it effectively, and felt around. No Skywarp.

He was the most confusing person I had ever met. Sheen may have been less pleasant, but at least I understood how she felt around me. And I had _just_ explained to him that he should speak when dissatisfied, not run away. As I sampled another cube, purple and white light flashed in the room.

“Here,” said Skywarp, throwing a data pad at me as he rematerialized. I reached for it and missed. It landed on the bed, almost smashing a cube. “I'm pretty okay at most words but when I try to say the really _important_ things, I always fuck it up. What I'm trying to say is best put in there. That's the Jhaxian Academy code. Read page four.”

I picked it up and held it close to my face. “'Appearance: each mech shall retain the utmost rigor in keeping himself well-polished and painted. No offensive or inflammatory decals, décor, or holographic symbology may be present on the frame, nor shall he wear restrictive garments.'” I frowned. “You're going to use the school's code to force me to remain unveiled?”

Skywarp rolled his eyes. “Not _that_. Okay, that woulda been a good idea, if I was evil or something. But it's not what I meant. Read the next paragraph.”

“'Mission and Statement of Purpose: Your acceptance at the Jhaxian Academy is precluded on one thing and one thing alone: you have a special ability. There is something unique about you, something that makes you an Outlier. Whether you believe you have been blessed by Primus himself, or are the result of a fluke environmental factor present at the moment of being forged, one thing remains true: you must stand proud of your ability and work with the utmost diligence to realize your full potential. We here at the Jhaxian Academy pledge to honor your unique abilities and stand with you.'” I glanced at Skywarp over the top of the data pad.

“You're special! You should shine, not hide. Well, your speciality _is_ hiding. But you know what I mean.” Skywarp sat in the chair and leaned towards me. “My warping is the only thing that's gonna get me outta the transport business. I don't wanna do freight forever! I didn't believe in anything til I came here. But I believe what that says. I got something special in me. And you do, too. And you shouldn't be ashamed and have to hide it. _I_ think all that window-Primus-hide-yourself stuff was that cult trying to control you.” 

I stared at him. “That's... but... but I'm a holy Vessel.”

Skywarp shrugged. “Are you?”

“The Will of Primus shines through me! That, at the very least, cannot be denied. There have been _many_ witnesses.”

“Yeah, okay.” Skywarp sighed and reached for his waist. “Maybe you aren't ready for reality yet. I gotta ease you into it. You grew up with a buncha crazies, killed them all, escaped into the city, and ended up in a _dumpster_. You don't even know how to turn a shower on! I guess you didn't get to learn how to be a real person yet.” He tilted his head. “I mean, it's all kinda impressive in its own right. Not the dumpster part, but the other parts. You got yourself outta that bad situation! That's cool. You seem like a decent mech. Really weird, but decent. Given what I saw on the news, those escapees tellin' their stories, those cultists probably deserved it. But you obviously have _no idea_ what you're doing. Outside of the murder melty part. You did that _really_ well.” 

I stared at him.

“Yeah, yeah. _You're_ the one who wanted me to talk. Fine. Here. I see how important this is to you.” Skywarp held up a square piece of teflon. “It ain't fancy polysilk but it's fireproof in case you try to burn the place down, and it's bendable. You can secure it with, I dunno, I grabbed this magnetotape...”

Finally, something my poor processor could grab onto. A veil! He had brought me a better makeshift veil! “Oh! Thank you!”

Skywarp considered the black square. “If you put this on, does this mean I won't see your face anymore?”

“Yes.” I threw my horrible temporary veil aside and reached for that clean cloth. I grabbed it but he didn't let his end go. 

“Ever again?”

“Never, ever, ever,” I said.

To my surprise, his field flashed with sadness before being quickly pulled away. “Okay,” he said slowly. Skywarp pushed the cubes on the bed aside. “Before you cover up, can I do one thing?”

“What?”

He surged forward and kissed me. My spark jumped. His lips lingered against mine for a moment, then he pulled away. 

“Aha,” he said, pushing the teflon and tape into my hands. “You _liked_ that! Mmm.” He licked his lips. I turned from him, hastily placing the teflon over my face. “You can't hide it! I felt it!” 

My lines warmed. “I didn't mean... that was _very_ rude, Skywarp!”

“Your field _burst_ with delight!” He _grinned_ at me.

I chastised myself inwardly for the pleasure I'd felt. “Be that as it may,” I said. “It is _rude_ to touch someone uninvited. I would not do that to you!”

“But you _did_ ,” Skywarp said. He flashed his torso biolights and winked at me.

“I-!” I dropped the magnetotape. “I- I apologize, you are right. I should not have done that.” I fumbled with the tape. It was impossible to rip pieces off while holding the cloth over my face. “I will not do it again.”

“I wish you would.”

There was a fragile silence. I mulled over his words while securing the teflon in place. Was this another social grace or norm I did not yet understand? Some manner of frivolity? Was unprompted touch another subject The Order... the cult had left me woefully undereducated about? 

Or had that meant exactly what it sounded like it meant...

Before I could inquire, a wave of embarrassment washed out from him. “Primus, help me,” Skywarp said. “Look, uh, I gotta go do a thing. A big, stupid, _terrible-idea-thing_. I'll be back later. Just, you know, hang out. Enjoy the cubes. Practice reigning your field in. Forget this whole conversation.” And with a burst of light, he was gone.

~~

Skywarp returned very late that night, the smell of engex on his breath. His field was dizzying, it poured from him in swaths. Not just from the intoxication- his field felt like several, sometimes pulsing as one or surging out in overlapping waves. It was intriguing. It felt true and natural, like this was Skywarp as he should always be.

I set aside the play I had been rereading. “Hello! Are you alright?”

“I dunno how to word this at you,” he said, leaning against the wall. “So I got some courage, right?”

“Alright,” I said nervously. It struck me as strange that someone so much bigger needed courage to speak to me. All my life I had been gentle. I never thought of myself as intimidating.

“I got somethin' to tell you, okay. I dunno how to tell you this.”

“Go on.” My insides churned. Had Sheen said something about me? Was I in danger of being discovered? I would have to move on, again. Perhaps to another city. Another part of the planet-

Skywarp grabbed my shoulders and lowered his face close to mine. He blinked slowly. “There's still _only one berth_.”

“Oh!” Relief flooded through me. “That's quite alright. Is that it?” Skywarp nodded unsteadily. “I thought you were going to say the authorities had found me. You should rest.” I pushed him gently towards the bed.

“You ain't gonna kill me in my sleep, are ya? Cuz if there was two beds then maybe you wouldn't wanna kill me but I only got one cuz it's all I get for my work.” His biolights flickered unevenly, distressed. He slumped down on the berth, one wing catching in a tangle of blankets. He flicked it. “I guess I could sleep on the floor but that hurts my chest.”

“No,” I said firmly. I sat beside him and untangled his wing. “No one is doing any killing. Or sleeping on the floor. Our previous sleeping arrangement is acceptable.”

“Them priests, they got melted real bad.” Skywarp sniffed. “Us guys laughed at the pics but we were all horrified on the inside. And I keep doing stupid things cuz I can't keep my stupidness to myself. I did something real stupid just for you!” He groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I _really_ don't want you to kill me.”

“I will _not_ kill you. I promise,” I said, smoothing the blankets. I didn't want to say it aloud, but the first night I had slept in his room had been my _most_ restful. The berth was more spacious when I was alone, but I woke during the night from dreams of fire and mechs' faces splitting into jewels. “I found your sparkbeat soothing.” 

“Huhhh.” Skywarp thudded his chest. “Yeah, good for something!”

“Indeed.” I tugged his arm. “Lie down. Rest.”

“Hnnnokay.” Skywarp lay down on the berth, his wings missing the holes a few times before he settled in. “C'mere, Mirage,” he said, holding his arms out. “You're so beautiful. Even with that damn teflon. Please don't kill me. You are, though. You're _so_ fuckin' beautiful.”

“Thank you!” I laughed to myself. No one in the temple ever swore. It was amusing to hear. “And I won't kill you! Other than that one incident, I have never hurt a person in my life.”

“The beautifullest... mech... I ever saw.” His engines purred as I curled up next to him. It was such a novelty to feel the rumble on my plating. “You got yer pillow? Okay, good. I won't touch your axels ever again. I promise.” Skywarp folded me carefully in his arms, as much as he could at this angle, and held me close. I snuggled in, listening for his sparkbeat. His chaotic field surged around me, strangely welcoming in its splitting duplicities. I felt the most comfortable I had since before temple life turned. “This is my dumpster.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Me bein' all stupid like this. S'a low point. Like you in the dumpster. Poor little Mirage.” He kissed the front of my helm. I shivered. “See, stupid. Just like that. You can't just do that to a serial killer! Oh my god, _I'm sorry!_ For that one and the one before! Oh god, yer gonna _kill me!!_ ”

“I won't!!”

“Thank you. See? Actions are easy, but words are hard. 'Yes, sir. Freight 51 is delivered. Yes, sir. Freight 52 is delivered.' Those words are easy.”

“Yes.”

“But words like, 'shit, mech, I got a ground pounder with a body like a bullet in my room and he's got me looped,' they just... they just don't sound good out loud.”

“They don't,” I said. “I didn't understand _any_ of that.”

“Good. Cuz this is just dumpster talk, right? I really don't know what's wrong with me. Only had three more years.” He touched the edge of my veil. “You're so beautiful, though. No one else like you in the whole world. In _any_ of the worlds.” He took a shuddering breath. “So, here we are. We're both gonna start over. Okay? New start. Skywarp and Mirage.”

“New start,” I repeated.

“No more cult for you and no more stupid shit for me.”

“What stupid shi-”

“You deserve better,” he said. “But you got me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hah. Primus save me.” He licked his lips. “So sweet.” Skywarp deactivated the light in the room. Darkness fell, gently fading at our biolights. He shifted a bit. “You okay?”

I pushed the pillow into a more comfortable position. “I am well,” I said. I laid my arm across his chest, as I had done before.

His field finally wove itself back together and a smile flitted through it. Very slowly, he took my hand. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

Skywarp positioned our hands over one of his biolights. Reddish-purple shone between our interlocked fingers, tinged by my biolights. “G'night, Mirage.”

“Good night.”

~~

“What a captivating and _eloquent_ mech,” said Flatline sarcastically. “That exchange didn't make _any_ sense. You still expect me to believe he is a master of the deceptive arts?”

.:Yes. In that case he was working through a lot of things. Trying to both be true to and deceive himself:.

“About what?”

Mirage gathered his thoughts. .:About the role he wanted to play in my life. I found out much later his freight missions were very dangerous. He was doing the labor to pay for his room and board, you see. On the side, the Academy was testing him, studying him, _using_ him. They had him warp hazardous materials to different locations. A few of them were nearly suicide missions, locations near powerful reactors or engines, and he knew it. He said later he didn't have anything else going for him. Until he met me. The night I just described, when he returned drunk, Skywarp had told his superiors he wouldn't do the dangerous missions anymore- he'd made the firm decision to... help me, watch out for me. He had found a reason to stick around, so to say. Skywarp was the only teleporter the Academy had: they _needed_ him, so they had to acquiesce. But the Academy met his demand with punishment. They extended his service by tenfold and he greeted that information with drink:.

“Why didn't he just leave? Warp away, fifteen miles at a time?”

.:Because _I_ was there. If he ran away on his own, he could make it. But, as my story should have made clear, I was _absolutely_ unsuited for a life away from the support systems of civilization. If he left, he would have taken me. We would've had to go to a whole new city: no friends, no connections, no guaranteed jobs. I didn't have a citizen ID. And he knew he couldn't support both of us on a freight hauler's salary:.

“Oh.”

.:It was a big gamble on his part, honestly. He had just met me, and in choosing a safer life he had thrown another ten thousand years of freighting to the Academy:.

“That's not _that_ long.”

.:No, but he only had three left when he met me. And he hated the work. _Hated_ it:.

“Oh, damn.” Flatline's finials swung out. “He only knew you for, what, a week?”

.:Yes:.

“Hah. Compulsive. That sounds like him, I guess...”

.:As for the deception: he told me later. He was trying to hide something from himself. It's a beautiful story, really, but I'm not sure you'd enjoy it:.

“It's fine,” said Flatline. “We got nothing but time...”


	12. Wild Fields, A Treat

.:Very well:. Mirage settled comfortably into the med bed. .:I was feeling much better. My systems had suffered-:. 

One of the monitors chimed very softly. Flatline didn't look up. Mirage heard the shop's front door open, then footsteps, then a familiar voice. “Hey~eeeyyy.”

.:Ugh:.

“Hey!” called Quickmix. “What's goin' on here?” He pulled the curtain aside and strode into the patient enclave. 

“Hey,” said Flatline. “Working.”

“How close are you to being done?” Quickmix stood close behind Flatline, looking down over his shoulder. “The next batch of glass is ready to be poured.”

.:You could have comm'd for that information:.

“I _could've_ ,” said Quickmix. “But you know I can't go a day without seeing your pretty little exposed brain module.”

Mirage's field flared with indignation. 

“We're 64% done,” said Flatline, before Mirage could respond. “I've found continuity in all the rejected sensor forms.”

“Really?” Quickmix clicked his mask. The mixer in his chest spun a little faster. “Which one?”

“Two. Forms 1 and 2 for both vascular and innervated systems. The most primitive forms, when compared to Form 3.”

“Interesting...” Quickmix quirked an ocular ridge. “This implies discrete, traumatic events which prompted new sensor formation.”

“Yup.”

Quickmix and Flatline launched into a conversation rife with lingo that Mirage didn't fully understand. It was specs on his face, he could tell that much. He got snatches of, “processor-prompted alterations” and “prototype modifications to suit the new clusters.”

“Does the presence of three forms indicate two trauma events?” Flatline's finials flicked outwards in an expression Mirage hadn't seen before. 

“Maybe,” said Quickmix. “There's gonna be an appreciable amount of empty space in the final version if we ditch the first two forms.”

“Yeah,” said Flatline. “We'll have to figure out what to do about that. Don't wanna add extra weight with dead glass.”

“I know what _I'd_ fill that space with.”

“Quickmix!”

Though he wasn't exactly sure what Quickmix was implying, Mirage caught his tone. .:A little decorum, please. Or would that actually kill you?:.

“Did you finally hear some words you understood, sweetie?”

“Shut up,” said Flatline. “I've been doing intricate needle shit all day, Quickmix. Don't start.” He semi-transformed the plates in his chest and shoulders, stretching and shaking his limbs. Quickmix watched him, unsubtly. 

.:What were you discussing just now?:.

Flatline tilted a light monitor so Mirage could see it. It displayed labeled diagrams he did not understand. “You have several different sensor shapes in your face- we found them in the scans. One would presume, then, that your face used them all, because why would you have sensors in your face that you _didn't_ use? Quickmix duplicated your face based on the scans. But we've found that about two thirds of the sensors don't work.”

.:Is that bad?:.

“It wasn't bad when you had your face. It didn't harm you at all, I mean. It's a damn pain in the ass for _us_ , though. We don't want to cast you a new face with a bunch of dead sensors in it.”

.:What killed them?:.

“Probably something to do with your processor,” said Quickmix. He wiggled his fingers menacingly. “Something _traumatic_.”

Flatline rolled his eyes. “Traumatic events are the cause of this kind of damage. Your processor changed and your body responded.”

.:What trauma?:. Mirage touched his shoulder, where the taser bullet had struck him. .:You don't mean war-related injuries, right? _Everyone_ has those:. His hand wandered up to the side of his helm. .:I don't remember any injuries that caused processor trauma... When did it happen?:.

“When? I'll need more data to construct a plausible timeline. But I'm still not done mapping out the prototype.” Flatline waved the needle tool. “Complexity in Cybertronians generally increases as time passes; we can use that guideline to date changes in the body and place them in chronological order. The dead sensors are less complex than their operational counterparts. Therefore, we can conclude that they are older and that the working sensors are newer. Once I have more data I'll be able to narrow down the time frame.”

.:Alright:. Mirage's biolights blinked in puzzlement. .:What does processor trauma have to do with my physical face? I don't understand:.

“The processor-frame connection is just beginning to be fully understood,” said Flatline. “There are a lot of very interesting phenomena that were observed during the war that couldn't be explained due to all our resources, well, going towards the war and not explaining interesting phenomena. But now that it's over, we're having a small renaissance in the sciences. People finally have enough money, time, and _peace_ to do research.”

.:That's good, I suppose:.

“It's _very_ good! And to your question, what I'm getting at is, sometimes stress and trauma hurt so badly, they make their mark on your frame. We don't know why. I've found microscopic, swirling patterns on the insides of Autobot POW chest cavities that don't make any sense. How did they get there? We don't know. I theorized that stress caused their sparks to emit micro pulses. The energy spun out between the seams of their spark chambers and burned the insides of their chest cavities in patterns.”

.:Oh. That's so... that's very sad:.

“Your trauma wrote itself into your face. Probably twice,” said Quickmix. “And probably elsewhere, too.” He leered at Mirage's body. “I wonder where _else_ we could find it.”

“Just a second,” Flatline said. His head tilted and his eyes dimmed. “Spreem's interrupting.” He turned away from the two mechs. “What's up, Spreem?” Pause. “Now? We're kinda busy. Mirage-” Pause. “Okay, okay!” He shook his head. “Spreem wants us to come over. He's _really_ insistent.”

“Probably wants us to eat raw tentacles from Slimy Organic Planet three hundred million.” Quickmix shuddered. “Where does he _get that stuff._ ”

A tiny ripple of disgust went through Flatline's frame. “Mirage, I'd rather not remove the prototype. Can you project over it for the duration of our diversion?” He tapped a monitor and the med bed's functions went into a holding pattern. “You know what he'll do if we don't go over there.”

Quickmix's eye twitched. He headed for the door.

Mirage flicked his holo face on. He jumped down from the bed and followed behind them. .:What will he do?:. 

“ _Incessant badgering_ ,” said Flatline, his finials swinging out and down. He dimmed the shop lights as they stepped outside. “Hopping around underfoot.”

“Spreem once comm'd me fifty-seven times in a row,” said Quickmix. “ _Fifty-seven times!_ Super distracting! It only stopped when Punchbomb punctured the side of my head.”

.:Oh!:.

Quickmix raised his orbital arches suggestively. “With his _spike_.”

.: _Ugh!_ :.

“ _Really?_ ” asked Flatline. “Did he _really?_ ”

.:No further details are necessary:. Mirage sent.

“I feel like his giant fists would've been more effective,” mused Flatline. “He's _Punchbomb_ , afterall.”

.:No further details!:.

“Oh, Mirage,” said Flatline, finials swinging forward a bit. “When Quickmix makes outrageous claims like that, you _have_ to question them. It's the only way to stay sane in his presence.”

“It's _true!_ ” Quickmix pointed to his head. “Look, right here-”

“You never came to me with a cranial puncture,” said Flatline. 

Mirage pushed ahead of them and walked gratefully into the crusty silence of Spreem's Burgers. He strode through the torn up dining room and into the bright kitchen.

“Hey, Mirage!” boomed Spreem. His visor bubbled faster than Mirage had ever seen. The counter was piled high with candy molds, colored powders, dirty mixing bowls and utensils. “Are the others coming?”

.:Yes. They were right behind me:. Mirage surveyed the mess. .:Oh dear, Spreem. What do you have in store for us?:.

“It's a surprise!” Spreem's field radiated excitement. “I've been reading the stuff you sent over.” 

.:No more fires, hopefully?:.

“Hah! Naw. Fire is soup trouble. I'm over soup!”

The restaurant door slid open and Quickmix's voice came through. “-you can examine _my_ spark chamber _anytime_ -”

“Shut up,” snapped Flatline as they entered the kitchen area.

“Hi! You're here!” With a flourish, Spreem held out a plate of dazzling energon treats. 

Flatline and Quickmix stopped dead. Their eyes widened, their fields rippling with shock. 

.:Oh!:.

Pudgy, faceted, gem-shaped gelatinous treats were arranged on the plate in rainbow order. Some were translucent, catching the light in bright bursts of color. Others held a suspension of silver dust, giving them a frosted appearance.

“Oh my god,” said Quickmix, shoving Flatline aside. “They actually look delicious!” His mask dropped to the floor with a _clang_ and he crammed several of the sparkly treats into his grindform mouth. Mirage animated his wince- it was poor form indeed for a grindmouth mech to shovel food in like so. Food hitting the whirring toothplates tended to spatter, if not outright spray, out. Quickmix was no exception. “IT _IS_ DELICIOUS!”

Mirage brushed gelatinous specks from his arm. .:These are beautiful!:. He picked up a treat and held it to the light, admiring it. .:Spreem, these are _lovely_. I have heard they are quite difficult to make. These would have been prize-winning in my day!:.

Flatline unlatched his mask and shoved a treat into his mouth with slightly more dignity than Quickmix had. “By Primus,” he said. “Spreem, this is really good.” He reached for another.

Spreem's visor bubbled ecstatically and his field beamed with pride. “Thanks!!”

.:I wish I could enjoy it:. sent Mirage, squishing the treat between his fingers. It felt just right. He held it up to his holo nose, imagining the smell. 

“Aww, sorry Mirage.”

.:Please, tell me what they taste like!:.

“Sweeter than the valves at The Sticky Gear,” said Quickmix. 

.: _Thank you_ :.

Flatline snorted. “They're kinda like, eh... I dunno, I've never had anything like it. What's the flavoring particle, Spreem?”

“Some aluminum, some silicon.” Spreem held up a small box and dipped a finger into it. His fingertip came up coated in a shimmery, blue powder. “Each color has its own flavor. This is powdered crystal. It's from one of the recipes Mirage gave me.”

.:Exquisite:. Mirage placed the treat back on the plate. .:I cannot _wait_ to try one after my rehabilitation is complete:.

“I made more! They didn't turn out as good, though.” Spreem held up a small bowl of dull gray treats floating in a clear liquid. “These are 'magic treats.' The recipe says if you make them right, they turn clear in triple-filtered, decolored engex. See,” he held up a plate of pink, cushion-shaped treats with a quilted pattern, “they're pink here, but when you put 'em in the engex, they're supposed to turn clear and sink to the bottom. It's like a fancy thing. And it adds a different flavor to the drink. But mine didn't work right.” He poked one of the floating gray treats. It bobbed.

.:Yes:. Mirage bent to peer at the bowl. .:I remember these. They were quite popular at one point, quite the fad. Sometimes mechs hid a small gift or a surprise inside, which was revealed when the treat turned clear in the drink:.

“Ohhh,” said Spreem. “That's a great idea!”

Quickmix, who had mowed his way through half the plate of rainbow treats, snapped to attention. “What?” He snatched one of the pillowy pink treats from the plate. He eyed it, then the bowl of engex. Treat, engex, treat, engex. Comically, back and forth, staring at the two. Then he scooped up the last of the rainbow treats and ran out of the kitchen screaming, “I HAVE AN IDEA!”

The three remaining mechs stared after him.

.:That was _very_ odd:.

“He left his mask on the floor,” said Spreem, poking it. “He's running around Iacon grindmouthded.”

Flatline sighed. “Spreem, you probably just gave him an idea for 'magic explosives.' With tinier explosives hidden inside. Great. We'll all sleep _so_ much sounder tonight.” 

.:Are you planning to sell these?:. Mirage picked up one of the pink, pillowy treats.

“Yeah, I think so. I think they might sell better than the alien food does...”

.:I agree. You should contact Blurr when you have a steady supply:.

“Who?” asked Spreem.

Mirage projected his incredulity. .:Blurr? Cybertron's most famous racer?:.

“Oh, racing? I've heard about that. Pre-war stuff,” said Spreem.

.:You're making me feel old:.

“You _are_ old,” said Spreem. “High five shiny warborns!” He extended his palm to Flatline.

Flatline rolled his eyes but indulged the shorter mech. “Yeah, woo. Go us. Born of cruelty and carnage-”

.:Blurr runs Maccadam's:. interrupted Mirage with a smidge of irritation. .:I recall his fondness for the more exotic treats. He had some sponsorships, in fact. He did a few commercials. Once you can mass produce these, contact him. Perhaps he will sell them at his establishment:.

“Okay!” said Spreem. 

“Good work,” said Flatline. “All I want from you from now on is these.”

Spreem laughed.

“I'm serious,” said Flatline. He stooped to pick up Quickmix's abandoned face plate. 

“Oh, ha ha! I know you love my cooking. Don't worry, Flatline. I won't forget your favorites!”

Flatline groaned.

~~

.:That was a _delightful_ interlude:. sent Mirage as he climbed back into the med bed. .:It's lovely to see Spreem have success. And what beautiful treats he made!:. The bed settled comfortably around him. .:I cannot _wait_ to taste one!:.

“Yeah,” said Flatline. “He did good.” Flatline placed Quickmix's abandoned face plate into a quarantine box and washed his hands. He pulled his chair to the med bed and took up the needle. “Back at it. Where were you?”

.:Seeing those treats has put me in a lighthearted mood. I am so pleased to share the rest of this story with you!:.

~~

I was feeling much better. My systems had suffered quite a bit of damage by my time outside and the long rest did me well. Skywarp's schedule became slightly less grueling and he seemed happier overall. He stayed with me longer on his breaks, tried to remember to bring me real food and not just snacks. We chatted about things here and there. I brought up the subject of approaching the Academy's board. Skywarp agreed it was a good idea, but expressed concern about my desire to veil my face.

“If, as you say, some mechs have no faces at all, then why would they concern themselves over one who veils his?”

“I'm not worried about _them,_ ” Skywarp said. “I think it's a bad thing for _you_.”

But when I balked and pressed him on the subject, he refused to talk about it, citing our previous discussions. “I don't wanna fight about this,” he'd say, and change the topic of conversation. 

“Practice reigning your field in,” Skywarp said. “Once you can do that, you can sneak around the Academy all you want. But I _really_ think it's a bad idea for you to do that until you can. Mechs like the ones here are gonna notice you _right away_ and if you don't have a story to feed 'em, you're gonna land in trouble so deep I don't think even I could warp you out of it.”

“Alright.” I was bored with the confines of the small room and the window view, but I trusted him.

I practiced, oh how I tried. It was so hard, though. I had gone my whole life not knowing fields existed and that they could be controlled. To learn it now was quite the challenge.

Skywarp laughed heartily at my mistakes, which left me feeling ashamed. “Sorry,” he said. “I mean- it's just, it's just really funny. It's not your fault! But laughing at yourself might help, ya know? Loosen up a bit. Don't feel so stressed about it. Keep trying.”

At night we curled up together in the berth, cramped and close. He told me about his favorite places he had been, comical things that had happened during the day. I watched his eyes, his biolights. Their color and intensity were ever more beautiful with each passing night. He never talked for long, always drifting off to sleep, giving my hand a squeeze as a 'good night.' I listened to his spark. I felt at ease.

~~

And so it went for a few weeks. He tried to help me pull my field in. I tried to teach him the ancient languages. Neither of us had much success, but there was laughter. 

There was not much deviation from that schedule, until one day he appeared in his room in the middle of one of his shifts. I jolted up in surprise. “Skywarp!”

“Yo! Look. I liberated these from the maintenance shop.” Skywarp pushed the desk over to the berth, where I was sitting, and set three small tins on it. “I have an idea.”

“What are those? Aren't you on duty?”

“Ahh, screw those guys. Thundercracker said he'd cover me. He owes me for some stuff I smuggled in for him, anyway.” Skywarp indicated the labels on the tins. “Paint. A few different colors. I thought maybe it'd be easier for you than the veil. You'll still _technically_ be hidden but you'll blend in better. It's meant for joints, so it's more flexible than body paint. It'll move as you talk and stuff.”

“Oh,” I said. “An intriguing proposition!”

He opened the cans. “I picked natural colors. Figured you wouldn't want the bright, obvious ones. I painted Thundercracker's face neon green once at a party, heh. It looked great, don't ever let him tell you otherwise.” Skywarp pointed to the first can. “I tried to match to some of your colors. This one's like your chest, kinda matte white. This one's like your hands, black-gray. Annnnd... this one's silvery-white, like your spoiler.”

“The silvery-white,” I said. It was the closet color to his.

Skywarp smiled. “Okay.” He capped the other two. “I grabbed some brushes.” He tossed a bunch onto the desk.

I studied them. “This one,” I said, handing him a wide, soft brush. “And this one for details.” A small, thin brush.

“Me?”

“Of course. There are no mirrors here.”

His eyes flickered to the ceiling. “No, no mirrors here.” He sat back. “Okay...”

I pulled the teflon veil off and lifted my chin.

He stared at my bare face. 

“Begin,” I prompted. 

“Right,” he said, dunking the brush in the paint. Skywarp's hand shook a little as it neared. I eyed that quivering brush.

“Are you functioning properly?”

“Yeah,” Skywarp said. He took a deep breath. “I just wanna do a good job.”

“Good,” I said. “I want that as well.”

He reached forward again, hand still shaking. “Uh, lemme just...” Skywarp set his elbow on the desk. He nudged his chair forward. He twisted his arm, trying to fold his large limb into a smaller space. “Can you move forward?”

I leaned towards him. He smiled.

“Here goes.”

The brush moved across my cheek. The paint was cold and thick. I shivered. I could count on one hand how many times my face had been touched by something other than a veil. Two of them had been Skywarp. Though I was certain there were no stimulating chemicals in the paint, it tingled. 

“Hold still,” Skywarp said.

“I'm trying,” I replied. “It's cold.”

Skywarp scrunched his shoulders together, his upper arms scratching against the sides of his chest. He partially transformed his nosecone inward. “Guess I'm not built for this kind of thing,” he said. “Can't you get any closer?”

I huffed and leaned over as far as I could.

“Primus,” he said softly. 

“I am the Will,” I intoned.

“What?”

“Oh... that was... automatic. The way you spoke sounded like reverent prayer. I was answering it. Please, continue.”

Skywarp snorted. The brush wavered across my cheek and down my jaw. “Stop moving!”

“I didn't know I was.”

“Look, can I-” He reached his other hand out. It hovered by my chin. I shrank back from it. “Just... hold you still. I won't hurt you, I promise. Just to help with the painting.”

“...alright.” 

Skywarp took my face, very gently, his fingers below my chin and his thumb over my lips.

“So smooth,” he said. He stared at my lips and clamped down tight on his field. Its absence in the room echoed in my chest. Skywarp finished the job in silence, concentrating hard on every brush stroke. I fidgeted in my seat, gripping the table. The sensations were almost overwhelming, especially near my eyes. But after a lifetime beneath cloth, I was so excited to have a permanently hidden face.

When he finished, he stood and pulled a long, thin panel down from the ceiling.

“What is that?” 

He flicked it and its surface became reflective. 

“Is that a mirror? Why was it on the ceiling?”

“Don't worry about that,” Skywarp said hastily. “Here, look. What do you think?”

“Ohhh, this is _marvelous!_ ” I held the mirror close. The fear and anxiety that had lurked deep within my spark since Praecisius's torment were scoured away by a wave of unbridled joy. “This is _wonderful!_ ” I tilted my head. There were shadows on my face! Before I could only see brightness here and there. But now my face had a shape. It was astounding- my cheeks, my jaw. A shadow under my nose! A shadow under my _lips!_ Everything had edges and a sharpness I had never experienced before. “This feels exactly right! Thank you, Skywarp!” I closed my eyes. “Oh! It's _dark!_ ”

Skywarp's chuckling stopped abruptly. “You mean all that time, when you shut your eyes, you still could see?”

“Yes, glass eyelids. You just painted them,” I said, opening and closing my eyes. I glanced around the room. The sharp lines of the berth, the window, and the shelves struck me. The cheap holopics on the walls were of Skywarp, the blue mech from the showers, and a few others. I stood before the mirror and saw myself- my graceful lines, my own seams, the details of my frame. “I can _see!_ Focus better! Things are more clear!”

“Huh,” he said. “Maybe the light of your eyes was bounced back into them by the glass.”

I nodded. “I never thought about it, but that must be it. Before now, everything was a blur. This feels _so_ much better.” I stared in the mirror again. I saw my own smile. I saw the brush strokes on my face. I saw the tiny, glittering dots in the biolights of my knuckles. My spark spun with joy. I looked out the window. I looked at Skywarp.

He grinned.

I hadn't seen him _properly_ before now- the thin slats in his vents, the lines that ran from his eyes to his chin- most mechs have that, but I had never seen them before! The fine workings of his optics, the ribbing in the cables of his neck. Even his chin had faint lines around its edges. His biolights that I had touched that first night- they ran along seams, and I saw those now, too. His paint was not perfect, but scuffed and chipped at the edges, fine scratches everywhere. His wings had branching panels and little chunks taken from their edges. His hands were scraped, his palms dulled by a thousand years of lifting and carrying freight.

“Heh, uh,” he said uncertainly. “Like what you see?” 

“Oh, _yes_.”

The paint had a _profound_ effect on me. The protection and the comfort of the veil were now part of me, unable to be removed, unable to fall off, and most importantly, discreetly hiding the most private part of me in plain sight. I felt stronger, more confident. I felt like I had a barrier against the world now, fully under _my_ control. All that from one thin layer of paint. It was my armor.

With _my_ name and _my_ face, I felt that I truly owned myself and belonged to no other. What had come before- what had been done to me- was not only dreadful and harmful, but deeply wrong. 

If the morning prayers meant nothing to the sun, than The Order would mean nothing to me. I would no longer let them define me. 

My final act of vengeance would be to define myself! I resolved to take the good The Order had done for me and twist it to my own devices.

It would take a long time to heal... but in _that_ moment, I felt free.

~~

Once the paint dried, Skywarp wasted no time in introducing me to his friends. They were very impressed by my outlier ability. No one noticed any aberrations about my face, asked about my past, or made any indication they knew of my previous association with The Order. They were entirely satisfied with Skywarp's simple explanation for my origins: “I found him in the dumpster.”

They did, however, tease me _mercilessly_ for my wild field. But being in the company of several mechs interacting gave me a better handle on what was appropriate to express and when. I learned more quickly.

Thundercracker concocted an elaborate tale for me, but I told him I preferred something simpler. Something so believable no one would think to question it, but if they did, it would be hard to prove wrong. He took in my posture, my education, my speech patterns, and declared that I would be one among the lowest ranked Noble houses. It was known that there were illegitimate mechs among them- they were obviously raised with wealth, but it was a social faux pas to press for the details on how they came to be. “Keep pretending you love fancy things, put your nose in the air, and if anyone asks questions, start screamin' that you were born in a Noble house,” Thundercracker said.

Armed with this story and a much greater sense of confidence, I approached the board on a day when I knew Order members would be absent. I presented myself eloquently and with a simple demonstration. I was immediately accepted, my name already passed along to possible 'interested parties' outside of the Academy. I was given my own room, a small stipend, a subspace compartment that felt like pure magic, and an account for my monetary affairs. I was so proud of myself! I had escaped the temple a little over a month ago and now was beginning my new life.

I knew to whom, in major part, that new life was owed.

Skywarp helped me find my room. “Here we are,” he said, stooping in the hallway. He opened the door. “What the hell!”

My new room was several times bigger than his, although the ceiling, like all of those in this particular building, was too low for him to stand properly.

“I suppose they were quite charmed by me,” I said, grinning. “ _Noble_ as I am, I deserve no less.”

“Hmph. Been here a thousand years and don't get nuthin...” Skywarp muttered, but his field was light. He eased himself through the doorway, bending and angling his wings askew. “Damn, tight,” he said. “Dunno why they put all you ground-bound mechs in this building, but damn. Now I understand what Trailbreaker's been bitching about.”

“Obviously, the building was made for me,” I said in the exaggerated, lofty tone Thundercracker had me practice. I winked at him. I was very excited for that wink. It was my first one. I had been practicing.

“Pff, right. _Obviously_.” Skywarp winked back. He flattened his wings and flopped down on my bed. “Whaaaaat. Why's your bed bigger, too!”

I perched on its edge and felt its spring. “It will do,” I said.

“No wingholes in it, though,” said Skywarp. He sat up and closed his wings again, that being the preferred, more comfortable position for him. “Defective. Send it back.”

“Hmm hmm,” I laughed a bit. I walked to the window. It had a nice view of the campus buildings and the city beyond. “I am looking forward to seeing this at night. I recall the skyline that was visible from my room at the temple. The buildings were a blur, but still lovely to behold. I wonder if I will see any of the same ones from this angle.”

“Do you miss that place?”

“Oh, I hadn't meant to romanticize the temple... I suppose, yes, maybe I miss some parts of it. I really shouldn't. It was good to me in some ways, but terrible in others. And the whole thing ended wretchedly.”

“Yeahhhhh.” Skywarp looked around the bare walls. “You gonna interior decorate this place? Hang up some, I dunno, gold tapestries?”

“Is that what you think the temple was lined with?” I laughed.

“Maybe. Was it, though?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “Towards the end it was.”

“Hah!”

“But I don't think I will be doing that,” I said, smiling. I sat beside him on my bed. “I quite liked _your_ decorative style! I would like to have holopictures of myself with friends. With you.”

“Heh.” He moved his optical ridges suggestively. “We can totally do that.”

“Wonderful.” I concentrated, accessing my new online accounts. “It seems the advance for my stipend has arrived.” I stood and offered Skywarp my hand. “To thank you for your hospitality and assistance, I would like to take you to my favorite place.”

“Oh?” He took my hand. 

“Yes. I went there once, a very long time ago, to bless it.” I pulled him up and he rose, hunched, from the berth. “The Crystal Gardens of Towers-On-Main. The crystals were _so_ beautiful. I cannot wait to see them now, with better eyes!”

“The Towers?” Skywarp looked skeptical. “You know they don't let mechs like me in there.”

“Really? Whyso?”

“Freight haulers. We're big, ugly guys. Can't be trusted.” 

“Oh. Perhaps I could charm the gatekeepers...”

“ _Perhaps,_ ” Skywarp said. His lips curved in a devilish smile. He grabbed me and pulled me close, his biolights brightening. He looked down at me with an intense gaze.

“Oh!” I felt my spark turn, uncertain what he would do next. 

“But _I_ can go _wherever I want_.”

“Wha-”

VOP!!

VOP!!

VOP!!

Skywarp, limited by his range, made a series of quick warps until we appeared outside the gate of the Crystal Gardens. He held me steady while I got my bearings. “Your head okay?”

“Yes,” I said, holding my middle. “I'm alright.” I waited a few minutes for my frame and processor to realign, taking in the scenery. 

The Main, a powerful river of flowing energon, pulsed past us to one side. Extending perpendicularly from it was a nickle-plated fence. Its swirling, circuitous design partially obscured the gleaming force field behind it. There was a massive gate with an attendant behind a booth. Further down along the fence were vendors with crystal baubles and sweets for sale. 

“Did you hear that one mech scream when we skipped through the market square? Hah!”

I shook my head at him; I couldn't help but smile. “You are a mischief-maker.”

Skywarp bowed.

I sauntered past him and approached the gate. The disinterested attendant did not give us a second glance. I suppose he reasoned if we had been allowed into the Towers area, we must be more important than we looked. Once I figured out how to transfer funds, I paid our entry fees and the gate pulled back. I passed through the force field. It tingled across my plating and I couldn't help but shiver with anticipation.

The air within was so fresh, so pure. I inhaled deeply, taking in the Crystal Gardens. The path was pounded metalwork lined with wiregrasses. Large, multifaceted crystals jutted out of the ground in every color. I stooped to watch the light captured within their facets. They emanated primitive fields of their own, a lovely hum. Each crystal had a unique frequency. I waved my hands over them and let our fields intermingle- how gentle and sweet these crystals were. No poisonous or dangerous ones would be found here. 

I walked with such delight! Crystals ranging from neon purples to gentle greens, tumultuous shapes with veins of rust, veins of gold, veins of energon. Irrigation conduits ran from the Main, encircling the crystals and ensuring their continued growth. Being around so much clean energon made me feel giddy. I found a large purple and black crystal that reminded me of my companion. 

“Skywarp! Did you see thi-” I turned, but he was not behind me. He was dawdling beyond the fence. “Skywarp! Skywarp?”

“Coming!” He ran through the force field as if expecting it to hurt, then looked all around when it didn't. “Whoa.”

“Isn't it _lovely_.”

“It's- wow. It's something.” Skywarp's eyes were wide as he took in the gardens and the high dome of the shimmering force field. “They're keeping this place hidden from us peons!”

“Ah, but little do they know, you are already among them!” I laughed and showed him the purple and black crystal.

“Almost as good-looking as the original,” Skywarp said, patting it. “Ooh, hey, these things have fields...”

“Come on, I want to show you my favorite place.” I took his hand and pulled him further down the path. “I remember it from before. We stood there for our prayers.”

“Slow down! I wanna see some of these...”

We made our way down the path, straying to our sparks' delight. As night fell, the crystals unleashed their full beauty: glowing like biolights, their hums changed to tiny crinkling and tinging sounds. They tickled the audials. 

Skywarp especially liked a small patch of pale blue crystals. He crouched to the ground and waved his hands over them. “They're so... _cute_ ,” he said. “Their fields... I've never felt this before.”

I joined him. “Oh,” I said, passing my hand below his. “These are in crimped seablossoms. Have you ever had one? The energon treat? It's made with an amalgam from these crystals.”

“Nah,” Skywarp shook his head. “Never had one. We _commoners_ don't get fancy treats like that. What do they taste like?”

“Kind of like a cross between a flourette magentique and a blasttrap pastry.”

Skywarp rolled his eyes. “That doesn't help.” He lowered himself to his hands and knees.

“What are you doing?”

He stuck out his tongue- 

“No, don't-!”

-and licked one of the crystals.

The tiny crystal let out a _crack_ upon contact and electricity shot through Skywarp. His eyes and biolights went white and his wings flared out, narrowly missing me. 

“OW!” Skywarp collapsed on the ground, one arm splashing into an irrigation ditch. He swore at such length I thought his processor may have looped in a profanity crash. 

“Shh, shh,” I said, shaking his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Skywarp groaned and pushed himself up from the ground. He shook his arm. Energon spattered onto the wiregrasses. “Yeah, ow. _Dammit_.”

“Why did you _do_ that?”

“I wanted to know what it tasted like.” 

“And?”

He stuck his tongue out at me. There was a branching burn, like lightning, down its length. “ _Spicy_. Don't recommend.” Skywarp reached out and slowly wiped energon droplets off my side, above my hip. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh! It's, uh. I'm glad you're alright.” 

Skywarp considered the energon on his fingertip for a moment, then stuck it in his mouth. “Much better. Mmm.”

I looked away hastily. “Let's continue. We're almost to my favorite place!”

At last we reached the edge of the Gardens: a pond of energon that had been shunted off from the Main. A gold bridge linked the Gardens to the maw of a huge cave across from us. Long, spidering branches grew out from the top of the cave. Thin rootlets hung down from them, waving in imperceptible breezes. They were studded with tiny crystals, like glittering stars.

I practically pulled Skywarp's arm off as I ran up the bridge. “It's so beautiful!” I said. I couldn't stop saying it. “Look! So beautiful!” From the bridge's apex one could see the enormous crystals growing in the depths of the pond. The submerged crystals thrummed. Their power emanated in concentric waves that mixed and flashed. I marveled at that, and then the hanging stars, taking in their diamond beauty and their quiet _tings_. I turned to Skywarp.

“This is my favorite place,” I said. “I feel like I am flying, here. Above the pond, the city, the whole planet.” I brushed some of the rootlets nearby so the diamonds swung. “I am, well, _we are_ , among the stars.”

Skywarp nodded. “It's real pretty.”

We stood there for a long time, taking in the beauty of the place. When I was quite satisfied that I had seen every speck of the Gardens, I turned to Skywarp. I dug my fingertips into my arms, pulling out the plastic that protected my laser-carved décor. 

“What're you doing?”

I tilted my head and smiled at him, slowly pulling the protective plastic out of my helm. He watched me, one optical ridge slowly rising. My thighs, my hip plates, my chest, my shoulders- all the easiest ones to remove. I tucked the the plastic bits into my new subspace compartment. I took his hand. “Thank you for helping me,” I said. “Most sincerely and earnestly, _thank you_. I don't know where I would be now if you hadn't.”

“Heh.” Skywarp smiled and looked away. His wings ruffled. “You're welcome,” he said. “I'm glad... I'm glad things are workin' out really good for you.”

“Thank you. And, though you have already done so much, will you do one thing more for me, please?” I squeezed his hand. “Please?”

He stared at the red biolights of my knuckles. “What?”

“Will you let out your field. Fully. 'Wild,' as you call it.”

“What?!” Skywarp snatched his hand back. “Here?! In public?” He glanced all around.

“Yes. Please. There is no one else here. We have not seen anyone else in the Gardens all night.”

“But... _in public?_ ”

“ _Yes,_ ” I breathed. “I can sense something is different about it. But you never share. No one outside of the temple truly shares themselves. It's frustrating. It's strange. Please, let it be free. If only once, in this beautiful place. With me.”

“You are _freaky,_ ” he said with an uneasy laugh. “I thought you were gonna say you were leaving. But you said possibly the only thing worse than that. What did they have you doing in that temple!”

“Maybe I'll tell you someday,” I said. “Please?”

Skywarp grimaced. “I really... I don't think it's a good idea.”

“Why?”

His wings twitched. “Mechs generally don't... react well to my field. I think it has something to do with warpy space. It makes 'em feel... weird. Sick, kinda.”

“I do fine with your warps,” I pointed out. “No invisibility, no problems!”

Skywarp leaned away from me and made an uneasy sound. “I really... _really_ don't want to.”

Disappointment washed through me. I thought about how he had respected me our very first night together. He had not pushed for reasons when I told him not to touch me. But here I was, guilty of the very same. I tried to hide my disappointment and exude a sense of ease. “Alright. I don't understand, but I'm listening.”

“I'm just... _ugh_ , feelings. I'm just... _afraid_ you'll leave. The dynamic between us will change. Or something like that. I like having you around.”

“I wouldn't leave!” I said, smiling. “Where could I go without you?”

“I dunno. Probably lots of places.” He turned and rested his folded arms on the bridge. 

“That's _not_ true,” I said. 

“All the other beautiful places they keep hidden from the masses around here. I wonder how many of them there are.”

“There's a library. And a planetarium. A private academy. A dance hall. Another dance hall. An opera house. A-”

“Okay, okay!” Skywarp said. “I get it.” He stared out over the pond. The starry crystals reflected in his plating. I wanted to touch each one.

“I intend to repay you as best I can for everything you've done,” I said.

“You don't have to do that. I mean... unless you can get me outta the Academy. That'd be the ultimate repayment.” Skywarp grinned. “This is really pretty, though. A really nice garden. And you look great with all your... carving things out. I'm glad we came here.” Skywarp shook his wings, reset his vocalizer. “Oh, wait, I forgot about something.” Skywarp reached into his subspace compartment and pulled out two objects. “Got a camera mod at the gate.” He slipped a U-shaped appliance over his hand and held it out. A grainy screen activated and we could see ourselves in it. “Smile!”

I leaned into him and smiled. There was a flash. Skywarp pushed a cheap holo pic into my hands. 

“Here you go,” said Skywarp. “First pic for your wall.”

“Thank you!” The top of Skywarp's head was cut off and I was halfway through a blink. “I will treasure it forever!” I tucked it safely into my new subspace compartment.

“Also got this.” Skywarp opened the other object. It was a box of energon treats, gently glowing. “Y'know, I think these might be the blue crystal ones! The crimpy seathings. What are the chances of that?” He held one out for me.

I stared at it. I felt something move in my spark, as if Primus were pushing me towards something new. It pulsed through my lines. I knew what it was. I was a little afraid, a little dizzy with the idea, but I knew what I wanted.

“Er... you don't like this kind?”

Instead of taking the treat, I leaned towards him. “Skywarp, where could I go _with_ you?” I took the treat into my mouth. His eyes widened. As his fingers passed my lips, I felt his field hitch. Slowly, I licked his fingers, kissed their tips. “Mmm...”

The box of treats fell to the bridge floor. Skywarp ran his other hand up my chest to my chin. He hesitated, then touched his palm to my face. I nuzzled it. “Ohh.” He pressed our bodies closer. My hip plating clicked against his thighs. “Oh my _god_ you feel good.” His field flashed with desire, his biolights slowed. I wrapped my arms around his neck. He lowered his lips to mine.

But did not touch them together.

The light in his eyes intensified. I felt energy gather inside him, in his chest. He breathed heavily. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I said. I tilted my face up, expecting a kiss, but instead he held me tighter.

“Don't let go,” Skywarp said. His biolights flared. His voice dropped to a staticky whisper. “Please don't leave me.”

“I wo-”

His field _exploded_ out of him, layers and layers of it, pouring through me, drowning my own. I was lost in it, hardly a mech any longer, merely a bit of foam caught in a crashing tide. It was exhilarating and disorienting- the physical sensations of flight, of transformation, of _warping_ all mixed with his emotions- trepidation, fear, excitement. At this proximity, in the midst of this _power_ , each sensation condensed into its own shape. Some were roughly familiar: thorn-shaped fear, inside-out-outside-in transformation. Flight was arrow-shaped, blue, cold. Teleportation felt like I was every single one of the millions of particles in fog simultaneously- existing and moving as both an individual and as a group. 

I swam through all this, experiencing each emotion/sensation breathlessly. I sought what was at the heart of his field- his spark. Blooming out from there was a bell-shaped emotion shielded by thorns of fear. What I had been hoping for.

He felt me find it. He spoke with shame, his voice echoing all through me. “You fuckin' stunned me the second I saw you by the fence. You walked so brightly. But that first night together, when I saw your face in the dark! I felt... _I fell_... for you. _That fast!_ That's never happened to me before.” The tone of his field changed to embarrassment. “I didn't understand it. I was so afraid of it. You _felt_ right. _It_ felt right, but _seemed_ wrong. Way too soon, way _too fast!_ And then...” Embarrassment morphed to raw pain. “Your words from that night run through my processor every hour of every day: _Do not touch me like that!_ It hurt so much to hear. I never thought you'd feel the the way I did. I thought you would hate me and run away if you ever found out. So I promised myself... I'd never let it show, never let it push you away. If I could just be near you, that'd be enough. You make me feel so good. I'm happy when I'm with you. But now you know... And...” his words dissolved into thorns.

I could not speak, could not move, could not even feel my physical body. I was in that swirling field, saturated in it, part of it. I felt his love and the chaotic fear and revulsion around it. How it tormented him on every dimension he existed in. He was _so_ afraid to share.

_Put your fear aside_

I could not speak it, I just sent the feeling out as hard as I could.

Slowly, wretchedly, using the shape of sobs, he peeled the thorny fear away and let the love shine through. It reached directly into my spark and sat there, scintillating, existing in its simplest, purest, most vulnerable form. 

It warmed my spark and the sensations of my body rushed back. His field swelled around me on all sides, my plating shook, my limbs strained, my lines were liquid hot. All around us, the starry crystals were shrieking. I found my field had been stripped away, so I reset it.

At that, Skywarp reigned his own field back in, layer by layer. His fear passed through me. The weightless sensation of a drop in flight. The fragmentation of teleporting. The cold, wide expanse of that _other place_.

I fully returned to myself to the sensation of our lips together. I was trembling. He pulled away just enough to speak. “Now you know.” 

“I- I-”

“You didn't run.” I felt his smile on my cheek. Then he kissed it, and my jaw, my chin. Skywarp's field flowed out again – at a normal mech's intensity - thick and hungry. He tongued the cables of my neck and I realized I was making sounds I'd never made before. He held me below those diamond stars, breathing on my chest.

“Wow,” he said. “So that's _your_ field wild and hot.”

I gave an embarrassed smile as I realized that he was right. I had been expressing my pleasure at his touch openly. It felt natural to me, but to Skywarp it must have been quite something.

His hand slid down to my interface panels. I pressed against it. “Damn. You're burnin'. We should get out of here.”

I touched my lips to his. “Take me away,” I said softly.

VOP!!

~


	13. Splotches

.:I shall refrain from graphic descriptions, but the first time I overloaded in his presence, he crawled up to my face and _demanded_ to know what had happened. Skywarp had seen the display even through my paint! He was so enamored of it. He said it looked like how warping felt. He almost stripped the paint right off my face then, to see it happen again unhindered:.

“Heh.”

.:Our affairs were always pleasurable encounters. He was _very_ motivated to satisfy me:.

“Nice.”

.:The most-:.

“Ah, that's enough,” said Flatline. “I _really_ don't wanna know the intricacies of your physical relationship with Skywarp.”

.:My apologies:. Mirage pulled his field in with a hint of embarrassment. “The memory, ah! How it delights me! I overshared.”

“S'okay. Love and all that physical stuff- never been my thing.”

.:Ah:. Mirage tapped his fingertips together over his chest. .:Sorry. Um...:.

“So, the 'Will of Primus' is another warpy space thing, huh?” continued Flatline. “Since Skywarp said it looked like warping?”

.:I think so. Regular mechs attending the Oblectamentum saw colors and patterns. Skywarp saw that, too, but more intensely. _And_ he could see it even through paint. No one else I've, ahm, been with, can:.

“What does it mean?”

.:That was the Head Acolyte's job! What do _you_ think it means?:.

“Nothing metaphysical, to be honest.”

.:I feel the same. Interference patterns, as you suggested. I never knew the term, but I figured there was some sensible explanation for it. But I do not know _why_ it is connected to warpy space. It's just energy. All mechs can produce it:.

“Yeah, all mechs can produce that energy,” said Flatline. “But few mechs are like you.” He tapped the needle tool against his faceplate. “I have a theory. I think 'warpy space' is the place in between _all_ the dimensions. Skywarp said it himself: that's how he moves around.”

.:Yes:.

“And your invisibility isn't actually a trick of your holographic work, is it?”

.:No, it is not. Very few _ever_ figure out that they are separate:.

Flatline nodded. “I think your invisibility _links you_ to warpy space. I think, possibly, part of you goes _into_ warpy space when you're invisible. Part of you goes _there_ , so you're invisible _here_.”

.:I have wondered if that is how it works. My interactions with Skywarp make me think similarly:.

“You know what that means, then, right?”

Mirage sent a smile out through his field. .:It could mean a lot of things:.

“I think it means you're a conduit, able to draw energy from there to here, without even realizing it. A living bridge.”

Mirage's field contracted with consternation. .:Well. I _suppose_. Though that sounds more like Skywarp, don't you think?:.

“Yes, of course! Skywarp's been in warpy space for so long he's half in it _all_ the time. It's such an important and innate part of him that he's able to see it when it pokes out into our dimension- through you, your invisibility, your face, whatever. No wonder he's pissed off all the time. Constantly processing all that information, sorting it so he can have something of a decent existence wherever he's anchored himself. That's gotta eat up a ton of energy reserves. It might even be painful. And, hell, if he doesn't know _why_ he's always mad and in pain... that'd be even more frustrating.” Flatline shrugged. “That's my theory, at least.”

.:Oh... that's awfully sad:.

“But for _you_... Your being invisible brings you just far enough into warpy space to get a peek of another side. I think that the shadows you see when you're invisible are people walking around in between other dimensions.”

.:Oh. Then I suppose some of them can sense me, as well? Some of them follow me and some ignore me:.

“I think the ones who follow you are in your head. They're part of the trauma of your past. From your description, they sound less like curious other-dimensional-mechs and more like vengeful memories. These are the ghosts that you _project_. You're seeing two separate phenomena at the same time.”

.:Oh. That's _confusing_ :.

“It is. Diseases are complicated sometimes. Not everything is as straightforward as removing a bullet.” Flatline tapped a monitor. It displayed anatomical figures with layers of labels and numbers. “We're wonderfully complex creatures. _So_ much fun to dig around in.”

.:Hmph. It's not very amusing being the subject of such fun, I'll have you know!:.

“I know. And I have some suspicions about my assertions. Nothing's proven yet, of course.” Flatline swiped at the monitor and molecular diagrams came up. “But the good news is that maybe we can find a better medication. All indicators suggest your current one isn't doing its job. It's probably better suited for an entirely different disease system.”

.:That would be wonderful! I would really like to return to a normal life:.

“That's the goal.” Flatline worked in silence for a while, his finials moving slowly as he thought. Finally, he asked, “is the holographic work also an outlier thing?”

.:Not technically:. Mirage held up his palm. A crystal appeared above it, spinning slowly. .:It's a permanent processor implant that bridges my hardlight projector and my spy modules. It was installed during the war:.

“It's remarkable. Far surpassing any of the Decepticon tech I saw.”

The crystal grew, branching out, forming a glistening, spark-like structure. .:Yes. Hound, one of my compatriots, is an outlier with the ability to project realistic holograms. He was scanned, his ability converted to powerful software that capitalizes on one's native hardlight projection system. It was installed in many Autobots, but did not take in most. Thinking on that now, it was only successful when installed in other outliers:. 

“Hmm.”

.:Anyhow, the ability to generate unique data from scratch seems to be rather rare for us Cybertronians, but I have it. In fact, my spec ops specialty was creating believable data:. Mirage sent out a flicker of mirth. The crystal spark shrank and reddened into a palm print. .:It is how I hacked the scanner on your corpse library door:. 

“Hrmmm...”

.:I installed Hound's scanware, and, on Prowl's suggestion, linked it to my spec ops modules. I can not only project images that I have seen, but also images that I can imagine, in exquisite detail:. The palm print changed into a miniature figure, the green-winged mech disguise Mirage had used at one of the mortuaries. The figure walked the length of the med bed, furtively, as if sneaking around, before disappearing.

Flatline pulled up a monitor and tapped through several screens. “Yup, I see it now. Wow, that module is very well disguised! From the medical tech standpoint, it looks like a culture mod.”

.:Intentional:. Mirage swept his arm through the air, indicating himself. .:Given this frame? No one would question it. And if you did deep scan it, it would return Spanner's _In Reverential Praise of Almighty Primus, (Glory To His Name, Woe And Defeat Shall Rain Down Unto His Enemies), Under The Caress and Kiss of The Holy Guiding Lights, (May They Be Forever Shining) and Meteorological Shores, (Enriched with Minerals of Such Great Wealth We Should Weep), of Cybertron's Most Beloved Luna 1_ :.

“The longest, most boring, most pretentious poem ever written,” said Flatline.

.:The very same:.

“Heh. Nice.” Flatline pushed a button and the bed folded, bringing Mirage up to a sitting position. “You thirsty, mech? I could use a little break.”

.:Sure:.

Flatline handed Mirage his feeding adaptor and a thermos. He removed his mask and popped open a can of fizzy energon. “Cheers.”

.:Cheers:. Mirage put in the feeding adaptor, drank, and rested.

Flatline chugged two cans and rearranged the floating monitors and mobile stools. “Progress is slow but good. I've mapped out 95% of your face. Quickmix will have a new template to cast from tonight. He'll probably bring the prototype over tomorrow.”

.:Grand:.

“That was a nice story, by the way,” Flatline said, opening a third can of energon. “I mean, utterly bizarre and unbelievable, because _Skywarp._ But still, a nice story. A good romance. If you're into that kind of thing.”

.:Thank you. I am so happy I remembered it!:. A spark symbol wreathed with crystals appeared before Mirage. .:Only recently did the memories come back. I hadn't thought of it in years. I haven't thought of _him_ in years. But, I feel happy remembering now:. The spark symbol spun.

Flatline's finials snapped forward. “Memories coming _back?_ ”

.:Yes. Slowly, in pieces, since the accident:.

“The accident... Is there a lot you have forgotten? You haven't mentioned memory loss before.” Flatline flicked through the light monitors. “Hallucinations, projected hallucinations, physical and psychological symptoms associated with losing your face... nothing about memory loss in your file here.”

Mirage shifted uncomfortably. .:I confided in First Aid in settings more casual than clinical. It seems he did me the courtesy of not putting it in my file:. His field rippled with discomfort. .:I have found myself remembering or dreaming events. On their own, they make little sense within the context of the life that I've lived:. His shoulders twitched. .:For example, an apartment whose location I cannot recall living in, yet I know the contents of the furniture within it. Discussions I cannot fully wrap my mind around, or place within a known time frame. They are dreams, but their details and consistency make them feel like memories:.

“Go on.”

.:Individually they could be easily dismissed. But put together... they seem to be snippets from a greater swath of time which I have forgotten:.

“Hmm. Well, I think the trigger for the resurgence of the memories is fairly obvious. The data sheet First Aid gave me indicated there was a change in many of your systems at the time of your accident.” 

Mirage sent a nod through his field.

“The question is, who buried the memories in the first place?” 

.:Me?:.

“I can see why you'd bury the cult memories but why-”

.:Oh, _those_ weren't buried. I've _never_ forgotten those:.

“Then... just Skywarp?”

.:Yes, I think so. All the dreams center around him in some way:.

Flatline raised a finial. “Why would you bury happy memories?”

.:Oh. I guess I don't know:.

“Exactly. Plenty of mechs bury the shitty stuff, the war stuff. But the happy stuff? The stuff you're remembering is happy, right?”

.:Most of it, yes. How strange...:. Mirage's field jolted with horror. .:Oh, what if he _hurt_ me?:. Mirage wrung his hands. .:What if he _used_ me? Like the cult? I was so naive then! Could he have done that?:.

“That _would_ be a good reason to forget him. I'd prefer to forget him, myself.”

Mirage's field twisted. .:I feel _wretched_ even thinking that!:.

One of the monitors beeped. Flatline glanced at it. “There's no way to know for sure,” he said. “At least, not right now. From your stories... I mean... I don't _think_ he would have hurt you. _All_ the other Autobots. But maybe not you.” Flatline took the empty thermos from Mirage. “I don't advise continuing down this avenue of thought. It's very stressful for you and we don't have all the data yet. It's not worth it. We'll talk about something else.”

.:Alright:. sent Mirage doubtfully.

“I'd love to get my hands on some of those crystals you mentioned,” said Flatline, finials swinging upwards. “They sound fascinating. I guess they were all destroyed a long time ago, though, huh?”

.:Yes, to my greatest distress. The Crystal Gardens were one of the first grand structures to fall in the war. I believe I wept openly when I heard the news. I did not care who saw me. The war took _so much_ from us all:. Mirage's biolights flashed in a respectful, mourning pattern. .:I wonder if there are any efforts to regrow the gardens:.

“Eh, probably not. Pet projects like that aren't high on the priority list for Iacon right now. Too many crazy things going on.”

.:A shame. Perhaps some time in the future:.

Flatline smiled with his finials. “That's the spirit. Okay, five percent more to go. This'll push us to nightfall. Which is good, cuz I'm gonna collapse once it's done.”

Flatline continued mapping for a while longer. Mirage was silent, studying the layers of things between his eyes and the ceiling: Flatline's blocky, dark hands, the needle tool, which emitted a tiny spark every time it activated, the monitors with their strange lines of code and constant, soft glow. 

At last, Flatline threw down the needle. “ _There_ ,” he said, spinning a monitor so Mirage could see. “ _Finally._ All done. I'll send this to Quickmix.”

Mirage studied the image- his own face, covered in hundreds and hundreds of dots. Evenly distributed, about one third were green and two thirds were black. _The black ones are dead,_ he reminded himself. _They died from some kind of processor trauma that I don't remember and that Flatline can't explain. Ugh._ His frame shuddered ever so slightly. .:Alright:.

“I'm gonna go stretch and sleep. This kinda work wears on me.” Flatline splayed his fingers and wiggled them. “Gah.”

.:Thank you for... for listening. I can't remember the last time I shared all that with someone:.

“No problem.”

.:I feel... I feel more hopeful now than I have in the past. The memories have warmed me some. The happy ones, I mean:.

“Good.” Flatline tapped the monitors. They cleared out to their regular, blank, nighttime displays. He rose from his seat. “I'm going to bed. You good?”

.:I am well. Thank you:.

“A'ight. See you tomorrow.”

.:Good night:.

Flatline left, making sure the curtain closed fully behind him. Mirage stretched his arms and legs. The bed's panels followed. He let his limbs flop back down. 

He thought for a while under the glow of the monitors, letting his attention flit from memory to memory. Thinking about The Order didn't hurt like it used to- it felt like a story from another mech, sometimes. A story he knew inside and out, but from which he had great emotional distance. It had taken a long time to achieve total freedom, but he had done it...

And Skywarp...?

Mirage tried, again, to put the recent dreams in chronological order, to make sense of them. They _had_ chronology, he was certain of it. And ever since he had begun sleeping in the med bed, his dreams had been pleasant. Sultry. Missing the flames and horror of the dreams he'd had on the shuttle returning to Cybertron.

It was a nice change of pace.

Mirage tried to grasp the details of the dream-apartment. His focused wavered as he drifted off...

~~

Mirage perched at the edge of their bed. He sighed. “You called me selfish and I called you boorish and it very well may be that both are true.”

Skywarp stood over him, arms folded, frowning and looking away. The cozy room was tight with his unamused field. His wings blocked the cheap ceiling light, throwing deep shadows across his mouth and eyes.

Mirage ran his hand along the bed. Its sheets were soft and fine and cool to the touch. “I missed you, darling. I'm sorry we had a fight. I don't even remember what it was about, now.”

Skywarp's wings flicked.

“I noticed that... that my cabinets are filled with maintenance kits and balms and oils, and yours are empty,” said Mirage. He pulled a large black box from subspace and hefted it onto the bed. Its silver script glittered. “I intend to remedy that.”

Skywarp's eyes widened. His standoffish pose faltered. “Where did you get that!”

“At the aviationary shop, 22 blocks north.”

“ _You_ went in _there?”_

Mirage's optical ridges furrowed. “Yes, of course. It was the best place to purchase the specialized materials you need. Please, sit beside me, darling.” Skywarp sat, his weight deforming the bed so that Mirage leaned against him. “Please, extend your arm. Expose your elbow joint.”

Skywarp laid his forearm over Mirage's thigh and, with a series of faint squeaks and grinding sounds, parted the plating around his elbow. Mirage winced.

“Uh... heh.” Skywarp gave him an exaggerated smile.

Mirage shook his head and opened the black box. Inside was a variety of tools, lubricants, and oils nestled in foam. The fluted bottles' labels were black with curling, silver script.

“That's the _good_ brand,” said Skywarp. “I wish I coulda seen their faces when a _grounder_ walked in there. That must've cost a _shitton_ of money. Did they really sell it to you? Did you steal it?”

“I didn't steal it!” Mirage selected a thin tool with a scoop at the end. Carefully, he ran it in the grooves of Skywarp's joint, pulling up clumps of congealed oil and dirt. “They weren't happy to see me in their establishment, no. But I told them it was for someone special and they saw in my field that what I said was true. Eventually.”

“They didn't- _haha!_ Augh god that tickles- they didn't try to hurt you?”

“No. They were intimidating, for sure.” Mirage wiped the joint surfaces with a cleaner. “You fliers are so big! But I was calm and earnest. My money is just as good as anyone else's! But enough about me. This is a special night for _you_.” Mirage ran a fingertip down one of the cleaned grooves. “These seem quite deep, darling.”

“Yeah, shitty construction. Slightly softer metal than they should be. They get deeper over time. But that's what the dirt's for!” Skywarp grinned. “Fills 'em up. Keeps everything in line.”

“ _That_ is unacceptable. Can the grooves be refitted to the proper depth?”

“Well... yeah, I guess. But why? That would cost a lot. No one's gonna do that for me.”

“Hmph.” Mirage grimaced at the tools, already dirtied. “How often do you do your maintenance?”

“Eh, the Academy does a pretty thorough thing every couple years for us. They use car lubes, though, cuz it's cheaper.”

“Ugh! That's _terrible!_ ” Mirage gently tugged the tiny plates aside to clean beneath them. “The mech at the aviationary explained to me how sensitive fliers' bodies can be. Darling, you should take better care of yourself! Your poor wings- I didn't know how fragile some of their structures are. You should keep them more tidy! I tend to my frame at least twice a week. I am in _perfect_ working order.”

Skywarp rolled his eyes.

“Don't look at me like that. What use is invisibility if my joints shriek and creak when I walk?”

“Alright, I'll give you that. _I_ don't need it that often, though.”

Mirage paused his work. He looked up at Skywarp. “Perhaps you don't,” he said. He took Skywarp's chin and pulled his face down gently. “But you _deserve_ it and you shall have it.” Mirage kissed him.

“Hnnn...”

Skywarp's field changed and his posture relaxed. Mirage smiled to himself. “Let's try this lovely glass cleaner,” he said. He upended the bottle over a soft cloth. “It smells very nice! Separate your plating just a bit here, darling,” he said, holding the cloth up to Skywarp's chest biolights.

Skywarp hesitated. They hadn't done _that_ yet. 

Mirage realized what he had just said. A flicker of embarrassment came through his field.

“Ahm...” Skywarp cracked his chest open _just_ enough to expose the edges of his biolight glass.

“Thank you,” said Mirage quickly. He ran the cloth over the glass, rubbing away the dirt. “Oh! Your light shines so beautifully!”

Skywarp looked down. “Oh, heh. It does.” The reddish-purple of his biolights was more intense. The cleaner was either removing a _lot_ of dirt or depositing some kind of refractive sheen onto the glass. Or both. 

Mirage smiled up at him. “Tell me,” he said, running the cloth up and down Skywarp's torso. “What are your dreams, my darling?”

“Eh, mostly freighting,” said Skywarp. He shrugged.

Mirage laughed. “I didn't mean your literal dreams! Though surely you don't dream only of freighting?”

“You're the only mech I know who has interesting dreams,” said Skywarp. He shook his head. “The things your brain comes up with...”

“Shh! We are only discussing _you_ this evening. What are your aspirations? You've never spoken of them. What will you do when you leave the Academy?”

“I dunno. I never really thought about it. Doesn't seem like it'll ever happen.” He groaned. “So many more thousands of years...”

“Your obligation to them will end,” said Mirage firmly. “It _will_ end. Whatever your desire afterwards, we shall do it in celebration.”

Skywarp smiled. “I'm really glad you're gonna stick around... I mean, I _hope_ you do. It's a long time to wait. There's so much more you could do without- I mean, please don't- I mean-”

“It's alright, darling,” Mirage said. “I know what you mean. I will be here with you.” He kissed Skywarp's chest, where his spark spun beneath. “Your dreams?”

Skywarp thought for a while, engine purring as Mirage touched his frame. “I wanna travel to every planet out there,” he gestured at the ceiling. “And carve _Skywarp Was Here_ in its highest mountain. Or in its biggest desert. Or something. Leave my mark on every planet in the galaxy!”

Mirage laughed. “A lofty aspiration, indeed!” He stood to walk around to Skywarp's other side. “Will you please open your other elbow?”

“This is gonna take forever.”

“Oh.” Mirage's tone was almost sad. “Is it a loathsome chore for you?” 

“Nah,” said Skywarp quickly. He grabbed Mirage and pulled him onto his lap. “I like it.” His field thickened. He traced the seams running along the tops of Mirage's thighs and hooked his fingers under his pelvic plating. “ _Especially_ like this.”

“Stop that,” said Mirage, fighting to keep his field from responding in kind. “Open your elbow joint.”

Skywarp partially transformed his other elbow open. As Mirage leaned to scrape the cleaning tool along its grooves, Skywarp ran his hands up his back. He gripped the base of Mirage's axels and pulled him closer. His biolights pulsed slowly. “Nnn...”

Mirage bent his arm, trying to hold its position as Skywarp pulled him close. “Darling, I cannot-”

“I missed you, too.” Skywarp kissed his neck from collar plating to chin. Mirage's lines flashed with heat. “I wanna know what Primus has to say today. I didn't ask yesterday.”

“At least let me finish this!”

“After.” Skywarp turned and placed Mirage down on the bed. He kneeled and put Mirage's legs over his shoulders with practiced precision- the wheel wells in Mirage's shins didn't tangle in his wings. “I wish it were paint stripping day.” He gripped Mirage's pelvic plates and kissed along the insides of his thighs.

“ _Ohh_...” Mirage melted into the bed. He clenched the cleaning tool and it dug into his hand. “Oh. Oh, stop!” Skywarp's lips met the cables of Mirage's hips. Mirage's field burst with lust. “ _Oh_ , darling! But this is _your_ evening!” Mirage flailed, trying to push the cleaning tool into Skywarp's field of vision. Skywarp shifted his wings as Mirage kicked. “I will not be accused of being selfish! I must attend to _your_ needs!” 

“Hah! I don't need fancy cleaners.” Skywarp threw the tool aside. “ _You're_ all I need.” Skywarp lowered his face. 

_“Oh~!”_

~~

Mirage woke, spark spinning, breathing hard against the cap in his throat. His lines were warm, a faint lust evaporating from his field. As he clutched his chest, one of the floating monitors above him tilted downwards. He stared at it.

_I hope the med bed didn't record that._

Mirage tapped its floating panels, watching them rise and fall with his hand.

_I suppose there isn't much I can do, if it did. Short of hacking into it._ Mirage touched one of its many wires. _I wonder what that might be like..._ As if it had heard, the wire wavered away from him, tucking itself into the mess of moving parts under the bed.

.:You:. he sent out into the public frequencies, .:stop looking at me:. He waved at the monitor. .:Dismissed!:.

It hovered there for a while longer, then tilted back.

_Goodness,_ Mirage thought. _I either need a lot more rest, or a lot less..._

~~

Morning came and went. Flatline spent his time working on the floor/wing project while Mirage did a labor loan with Spreem. Mirage returned to the body shop with Flatline's lunch at the end of his shift. Flatline ate while Mirage downed a can of concentrated energon. Before he had a chance to ask how much the med bed recorded, Quickmix arrived, and Mirage found himself ushered onto it once more.

Mirage tilted his empty helm up, straining to see the prototype Flatline held. .:Ugh. What is _that?_ :. 

Quickmix scoffed. “An ingenious piece of glass engineering.”

.:I hate it:.

“Mirage,” said Flatline. “Don't start.” 

.:It's so _ugly!_ Look at it!:.

Flatline held the latest prototype up to the light. It wasn't yellow. It was clear, splotched with random, jagged patches of silvery white, gray, and black. Flatline squinted at it. “He's got a point, Quickmix.”

Quickmix's eyes flashed. “It's still a work in progress! The sensing structures are complete and operational. _That's_ what you're testing today. Not how _pretty_ it is.” He crossed his arms over his rotating chest. “Functionality over aesthetics, sweetheart.”

.:That is precisely the kind of statement a mech who looks like you would make!:.

“Shut up,” said Flatline. “New rule. Whoever bitches first has to help Spreem scrub his grease vats.”

Quickmix groaned. Mirage tilted his helm away.

“That's better.” Flatline pushed a button and the med bed reclined. Mirage's field flashed with indignation as the restraints looped around his limbs.

“Wait,” said Quickmix. “He won't need those.”

“What?”

“Take off the restraints,” said Quickmix smugly. “This prototype is gonna be perfect.”

Flatline eyed him. “Are you sure?”

.:Is he saying I may punch him if it's painful?:.

“It's not gonna be painful,” said Quickmix. “Because these sensors are _perfect_.”

Flatline shrugged. The restraints were withdrawn. Mirage rubbed his wrists. Flatline tipped the prototype into Mirage's empty helm and popped it into place. “Okay,” he said. “Here goes.”

Mirage's face twitched as the med bed cycled through its procedure. Flatline and Quickmix leaned forward, staring into the monitors. 

“Do you feel anything?” asked Flatline.

Mirage gripped the bed. .:It is not painful. But it feels _very_ strange:.

Flatline raised his finials at Quickmix. “I think it's operating correctly!”

Quickmix leaned close to Flatline. “If this works, I have a proposition for you...”

“What?”

“Open up for me and I'll blow your mind.”

“Quickmix! You're ruining a perfectly good research moment!”

Mirage kicked at him from the bed, but Quickmix stepped away easily, laughing.

“You'll see what I mean,” he said. “ _Later._ ”

After a few more minutes, one of the light monitors chimed and flashed **100%**.

“Yes!” said Flatline. His finials sprang up and bounced a bit. “Mirage, the structure of this prototype is 100% compatible with your processor!”

.:Wonderful!:. Mirage projected his holo face over the prototype long enough to smile.

“'What's that, Quickmix? You're a genius?'” Quickmix put his hand on his chest. “Oh, why _thank you_ , not-adoring-enough public.”

.:You cannot tell, but I am rolling my eyes at you:.

“Good work, Quickmix,” said Flatline. He gently pulled the prototype from Mirage's helm and inspected it. One finial went down. “Huh?”

The jagged patches of grays and black were in different spots.

“Hah! Haha! Yeah, I think that's a good sign.” Quickmix took the prototype. “Oo, still warm. _Nice._ ”

“The first major milestone has been achieved,” said Flatline. “Now that we know the correct sensor shapes, I want you to test that material for durability and longevity.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Quickmix, turning the prototype in his hands, peering at the splotches. “This material is nearly identical to the composition of his old face. And that lasted millions of years.”

“You can do better.”

Quickmix and Mirage both protested, though for different reasons.

.:Rude!:.

“Nothing's ever good enough for you, Flatline.”

Flatline shrugged. “It's true. You _can_ do better. No one's forged perfect. Improve on it.”

.:I feel insulted:.

“I feel underappreciated.”

“ _I_ feel great,” said Flatline. “We're halfway through this task!” He flicked through the light monitors, finials bouncing merrily. “Did you pour the molds for the teeth and tongue?”

“Uh.” Quickmix turned the prototype in his hands. “No...”

“That's next,” said Flatline. “Extrapolate the arrangement and vessel shapes based on the face data. If I recall correctly, those pieces were largely intact. I _really_ don't wanna go through all that needle work again.”

“Yeah,” said Quickmix. “Uhhh...”

“What?”

“Uh... nothing.” Quickmix headed for the exit. “Okay! Got the next directive.” He gave a melodramatic salute. “See ya later with the bitey and the licky.” The exit door chimed as he left.

.:Did he really just say-:.

“Yes,” said Flatline, finials unamused. “Yes, he did.”


	14. Violation

The next few days were largely uneventful, comprised of fittings and visiting Camien patients. Flatline finished the floor/wing plan and Quickmix was kept busy with its manufacture. Mirage didn't mind Quickmix's absence at all. Flatline was courteous and professional with the next step- fitting his teeth and tongue prototypes. It was awkward and embarrassing for Mirage, though Flatline showed no outward signs of unease. Mirage shuddered to think what Quickmix's comments might have been if he were present for the fittings. Especially the tongue flexibility exercises. 

Flatline also returned the prototypes and brought the scans and notes next door himself, instead of sending Mirage.

At the second fitting, which Quickmix was also not present for, Mirage suspected it was deliberate and not just a fortunate coincidence of timing. .:Thank you:. he sent as they wrapped up. .:I appreciate not being subjected to his comments:.

“No problem. It's better I go, anyway. Quickmix gets touchy with things like teeth and tongues.” Flatline tapped his faceplate. “He doesn't have 'em.”

.:Ah. Of course:. Mirage thought back to the day Spreem had surprised them all with his beautiful energon treats. .:Grindform mouth:.

“Yeah. So _he'd_ probably prefer not to see you, either.”

Mirage didn't know how to feel about that. He decided to brush the comment aside. .:What's it like, not to have a tongue?:.

Flatline looked at him. “You tell me.”

Mirage's field did the equivalent of a blink. .:Oh. Right. I meant over a lifetime, but I suppose I can speak from experience now. It's quite annoying. I am beholden to a liquid diet and specialized equipment in order to consume energon. And I miss speaking:.

“There ya go.” Flatline wrapped the prototypes in the cloth they had come in. “You're pretty lucky, actually. Whether by purpose or design, you have all the attributes society wants in 'the ideal mech.' Standard size, fully-formed face and hands, no allergies or metallurgical rejections, non-bestial alt mode. You don't even have the axel issue common to your frame type. Once you get your face back, you'll be all set.”

.: _Please_ :. sent Mirage, letting his holo face flicker meaningfully. .:As if I don't deserve it, given all my suffering! You're giving me flashbacks to The Order! That I am a perfect being, made for a single purpose:.

“Hey,” said Flatline with a shrug. “I'm not saying society is right, or that I agree with its ideals. Just that, of all the things that have held you back, your frame wasn't one of them.”

.:Yes. Well:. Mirage projected a frown. .:It is not as if I haven't worked for it. If he really wanted to, Quickmix could get a mouth implant:.

Flatline's finials went back. “You know that's much easier to say than do, right?”

.:What? Don't you just:. Mirage made a waving motion with his hands .:swap out the parts?:.

“Like we're doing with your face?”

.:That's different! My face is a _special_ material:.

“Yeah. And for everything you can think of, there's issues like that. If Quickmix wanted an _entire mandibulectomy with reconstruction,_ it'd take an enormous amount of time and resources to do right.”

.:But during the war, people swapped out parts all the ti-:.

“ _During the war_ no one gave a damn how an individual soldier felt. _During the war_ people got what they could get. Mechs have been walking around for _centuries_ with arms that don't bend all the way, legs and torsos that don't _quite_ come together in alt mode, eyes that don't align right and kibble that chafes. It wears on 'em. And then they find me, they come to me, and I fix 'em and they feel better than they've ever felt.”

.:So, if he'd feel better, why doesn't he-:.

“Because he feels fine. The way he is now is the way he came to be. He's happy with it. Most of the time. It's not him that's the problem. It's society.”

.:Oh. Well, you brought that up in the first place:.

“I know.” Flatline gathered the prototypes and a couple of light monitors in his arms. He headed for the exit. “I meant for the conversation to go in a different direction than it did. More 'Mirage appreciates what he has' and less 'Mirage dumps on Quickmix for the three hundredth time.'” 

Mirage stared at his retreating back.

The Camien house calls went smoothly. Mirage felt more comfortable assisting with medical matters and less awkward visiting strangers in the privacy of their homes. He asked Flatline for a diagram describing the procedure so he could point out what was happening to the patient at any given time. 

The disease was caused by the interaction of impurities in Cybertron's energon and the Camiens' unique physiologies. Their bodies sequestered the impurities, but didn't have effective means of removing them. The impurities crystalized, anchoring along the long lines of the legs, causing extreme pain, though often not much internal damage. The tubes and tools Flatline used were lined with molecules that bonded to the crystals. Once firmly gripped, they could be pulled out.

An action which, since Flatline had no anesthesia to offer, felt to the patient like their lines were being yanked out.

“They've all got crystals,” said Flatline. “Unless someone warned them before they got here and they've been using a filter since day one. The more they ingest before finding out the problem, the more painful it is. I submitted an awareness program proposal to Starscream but it hasn't been approved yet. Iacon's outreach program is in tatters right now. No interest, no funding. Too many other things keep getting in the way...” 

Fortunately, none were as badly effected as Flashflux had been, and Flatline did not need to use his field again. Mirage noticed that the loved ones of patients always stood very close to him while Flatline worked. Some even reached for him before quickly pulling away again.

He recalled Solarray wrapping her long arms around herself. 

_Perhaps Camien culture is more accepting of physical touch between strangers than Cybertronian..._ he thought. After confirming with Flatline that such was true, Mirage thereafter silently comforted those loved ones with held hands or embraces. It felt... well, strange, for one. To be so physically _close_ to a stranger, these gestures were nigh-on intimate for Cybertronians. Camiens had their own biolight pattern meanings and their fields felt just a little different. To hold a shaking mech while they politely kept their field reigned in... it was strange. The body said one thing and the field said another.

Usually when two mechs were so close all pretenses of polite field reigning were abandoned...

But Flatline was excellent at what he did, and the loved ones soon broke away from Mirage to rejoin their partners, and everyone left happy.

~~

“Good morning!” Flatline said around his food. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as usual. He was sitting with his feet up on the consoles, as usual. Spreem's breakfast plate was perched on his chest, as usual. His eyes were bright and finials raised with his insane morning chipperness, as usual.

There was a giant hologram eyeball floating in midair. Not quite as usual.

 _But,_ Mirage thought, _if it were to be anywhere, here is where it should be._ .:Good morning:. Mirage stretched, not at all the morning mech Flatline was. In fact, to his recollection, Flatline was always more alert and cheerful the earlier in the day it was. There had only been one morning at all where Flatline had greeted him bleary eyed.

Speaking of eyes-

.:What is that for?:. Mirage pointed at the hologram.

“Do you know about the tear duct surgeries? Probably not. You've got 'real' tears, I'd bet my leftmost missile on it.”

.:I- your what?:.

Flatline sat up and flung his plate to its usual place. “The cosmetic surgeries! From before the war. CC'd mechs trying to fit in with the forged.”

Mirage retrieved a drink and his adaptor and stood for his morning meal, flexing his limbs. .:I have no idea what you're referring to:.

“Typical, typical.” Flatline poked at a light monitor and the eyeball expanded outwards with a network of small tubes and ducts, the outline of a face ghosted around it. “One of the telltale hallmarks of a constructed mech, verses a forged one, is the tear ducts. Small, annoying structures to replicate that literally gush energon. What's the point? Why waste the energon? Constructed mechs cry static- the emotional energy runs along the stunted lines but doesn't have anything to dissipate into. It builds up and fizzes out. Forged mechs cry energon.”

.:Oh:. Mirage thought back to the assortment of mechs whom he had seen cry. There weren't many. He thought back even further, to the ancient plays he had read, wherein mechs were more open to expressing themselves. All of them had cried energon. Some with great, gasping, theatrical sobs and in different colors, for added drama. .:I suppose I never put that together:.

“Why would you? You never had to worry about it. CC'd mechs sometimes got cosmetic surgeries done to pipe the small lines from surrounding areas into the eyes. So they could cry like _real_ people.”

Mirage flashed his holo face on long enough to grimace. .:That sounds invasive and unpleasant:.

“And indeed it was! The price of easing social stigma a tiny bit.” Flatline indicated the hologram. “Here's what a typical forged lacrymal structure looks like. Annnnd here's a typical constructed one.” The tiny tubes, highlighted in green, shortened dramatically and were terminated so that they no longer attached to any other structures. “They're too short to connect to anything else. The forged tubules are so _fine_ , it's easy to see how their detail would be lost in the first molding. This failure was then later spun as a positive and never corrected, since less energon is wasted on the constructed mech.”

.:You yourself lack fully formed tubes, then?:.

“I do,” said Flatline. “Not that it matters. I've never cried in my life.”

.:Hrmm:. Mirage thought back to the display he had seen once, the voyeuristic intrusion on Flatline's mourning in his room, his spark light playing out on the walls. .:Right:.

“It's true!”

.:Sure:. sent Mirage. .:And you have a patient who is seeking this cosmetic surgery?:.

“Nah. Well. Kinda. They had it done in the past by some slapdash surgeon so they need a reconfiguration. I spotted some sites of chronic inflammation as well. Gonna address that while I'm in there.” He touched a light monitor and the eyeball vanished. “However, that's not the focus of the morning.”

.:Oh?:.

“Mirage, please sit.” Flatline gestured to the chair next to him, finials twitching.

.:Alright:. Mirage sat uncertainly. .:You seem uneasy:.

Flatline steepled his fingertips. “I think I've figured out the cause of your hallucinations.”

.:Oh, that is good news!:.

“It is...” Flatline's finials slowly went back. “I believe the catalyst for the damage was your first warp, while invisible.”

.:Pardon?:. A tiny wave of confusion swept through Mirage's field. .:But that was so _long_ ago. My symptoms didn't appear until halfway through the war:.

“Yes... I've found that you are presenting with a _very_ complex disease. There are a _lot_ of contributing factors. I've been using processor disease progression software to make sense of it all. Let's start simple.” 

.:Alright:.

Flatline pulled a few of the light monitors close to them. He flicked the first one. A diagram came up- a beige rectangle with various simple shapes sprouting off of it. “This is a stylized diagram of the average processor and its related components. Here are the mods,” he pointed to the circles coming off the rectangle, “the triangles are the memory banks, the star over here represents the sensing centers. It's extremely simplified, but it's easier to understand this way.”

.:Yes, I follow:.

“Good. So, this diagram is very uniform, very clean. It would represent the processor of a perfect Cybertronian. Someone untouched by war or pain. Someone newly come to be.” Flatline typed at the consoles. A few of the shapes deformed at the edges. Black lines crossed from the processor to the other shapes. “This might represent an average individual. There's some damage. You can see the mods aren't perfectly round anymore.” Mirage nodded. “And there are links now between the processor and the mods. These aren't life altering or life threatening. They're an average amount of damage an average Cybertronian may have accrued over the course of their lifetime.” Mirage nodded. “And this is your processor, Mirage.” He pulled the second monitor next to the first one and touched its screen.

Mirage sat back in the chair as if physically pushed. .:!!!:. 

His diagram showed a processor discolored, cracked, and textured strangely on one side, as if it had been burned. His mods were grossly deformed, one of them broken nearly beyond recognition. His triangular memory banks were slashed and missing chunks- one was not the beige of the rest of the shapes, but a dead-looking gray. Only his sensing center looked close to normal.

.:Oh! That is awful!:.

“Yes,” said Flatline. “But that's only half of it.” He touched the monitor again.

Black lines appeared on the diagram, linking the processor to the rest of the structures, and the rest of the structures to each other. _Hundreds_ of black lines. Mirage's biolights pulsed with disbelief as he watched them appear, more and more, tracing and retracing previous lines until nearly the entire monitor was black with damage.

.:Oh! Oh!:. Mirage grabbed the sides of his helm. .:Surely it cannot be that bad!:.

“It's... it's a lot of damage,” said Flatline. “Some of the worst I've ever seen.” He touched the third monitor. “Let's start from the beginning. This was you as dear one, clean and new.” An undamaged diagram came up. “See? Looks like the first monitor did.” He typed at the console. “Inputting an average amount of damage and degradation for a few thousand years, here's what your processor probably looked like right before you met Skywarp.” All the shapes of the processor were normal. There were a few black lines strewn about the diagram.

“Now, we get into the confusing part. All the scans I've done indicate that your first major processor injury is very old. I believe it was that first warp: your invisibility and Skywarp's warp interacted with a powerful flash across your processor and related components. In your story, you even noted an intense head pain at the time of the incident.”

The diagram flashed. The processor shape cracked. Black lines spidered out from the break and burrowed into nearby components, in particular, one of the circles. 

.:Oh my!:. 

“Looks kinda nasty, doesn't it,” said Flatline. “It was a _powerful_ interaction of energy. Outlier energy. You know, offhand, I find it hard to believe Skywarp didn't suffer as well. He was blinded in your story. Did he ever complain of vision problems?”

.:Oh, no. He never mentioned anything like that. Not even headaches. Not that I recall, anyway. He was very strong:.

“Hmm. Anyway, this flash did damage on two fronts: some of your deep code functions were fragged,” Flatline indicated the cracked processor shape, “and there was physical damage to your metalliotranscripti.” He pointed to the circle with the most amount of lines feeding into it. “I know the vernacular definition of 'mod' doesn't typically include the maintenance component of the processor, but that's what this particular mod is. This is the part of your brain that produces the components it needs to run itself properly. It produces them all the time, in very carefully regulated amounts. Or, at least, it's supposed to.”

Mirage gently touched the sides of his helm. .:Metalliotranscripti? I'm afraid I don't quite understand this specific:.

Flatline nodded. “I'll get to them in a moment. I've identified a few of the deep code malfunctions. They've spidered out beyond the original damage and linked different parts of your processor.” He pointed to the black lines. “It should be noted that none of the processor damage was life-changing at the time- it wouldn't be considered _traumatic._ It did lay the path for later damage, though. The metalliotranscripti are another story. They cause your, well... to keep it in layman's terms, they're the reason you overproduce a certain compound.”

.:The gamma-cybrobuteric acid?:.

“Yes! Gamma-cybrobuteric acid has been identified as an important compound related to the expression of underlying processor sequences. The 'subconscious.' Excess production is related to detailed dreams, nightmares, and in some mechs, increased creative expressions. You _do_ have very detailed dreams, don't you?”

.:I do... but the gamma-cybrobuteric acid was explained to me as being the reason for my hallucinations:.

“It probably is a major cause. We're saying the same thing. Gamma-cybrobuteric acid exists in healthy Cybertronians at a low level. Your level is very high. The treatment you've received so far has been to try to ease the effects of its overabundance by sequestering the components and making them more easily excreted. The fact that you were getting this _particular_ treatment later, during the war-” the monitor flashed the name of Mirage's medication “-suggests to me that your previous physicians understood the problem with the metalliotranscripti, but didn't know about the deep code issues.”

.:Should they not have seen those deep code issues?:.

“They _should_ have seen them,” said Flatline firmly. “But hang on, that was during the war. We haven't gotten there yet, time-wise. I don't want this to get too confusing. Now, I'm still missing some data. The warp phenomenon was a processor injury. I need to narrow down the cause of your first major processor _trauma_. When did you say you implemented Hound's scanware?”

.:Oh... not long after the war started, I think. I was tested and they said I would be very receptive to it:.

“What were you tested for?”

Mirage's field startled. .:Gamma-cybrobuteric acid...:.

Flatline nodded. “Okay, that makes sense. Even that soon into the war, you had elevated levels. It gives you an innate advantage on your specialty: creating details from scratch. That _was_ incredibly important to your spec ops work, correct?”

.:Yes... I am the very best at generating unique data:.

“Interesting.” Flatline typed at the light monitor. “The first wave of trauma, as indicated by the dead sensors in your face, was dated to the very beginning of the war. _Just_ prior to the scanware installation.”

.:Well... that's good, I suppose?:.

“ _Good?_ I don't know. It eliminates Hound's scanware as being your source of trauma. But what _did_ cause it?” Flatline's finials were down. “It must have been horrifically damaging. I have gathered some evidence and I really don't like what I'm seeing. But we must eliminate all other possible sources first.” Flatline reset his vocalizer. “Mirage, were you at the Jhiaxian Academy until the war started?”

.:Oh, no no. I left the Academy long before the war started. Many people were interested in hiring me for my talent. I was a freelancer:.

“What did you do between leaving the Academy and the start of the war?”

.:I worked with various clients, both private and governmental. Eventually Optimus requested an exclusive contract with me. I worked for him in different capacities up until the Autobots convinced me to join them and the war began:.

“Hah! 'Different capacities.' What a nebulous phrase.”

Mirage shrugged gracefully. .:I point you to my profession:.

“Well, _specifically_ , I am wondering if you ever,” Flatline made obnoxious hand quotes in the air, “'worked in a capacity' with brain specialists.”

.:Doctors?:. Mirage considered the question. .:I suppose so? In a _very_ loose interpretation of the question:.

“And?”

.:I worked as a guard for the New Institute. Only a few nights a week, right before the war started:.

Flatline blinked. “Disturbing.” The missiles on his back shifted and he made a distressed sound. “Did they ever do anything to you? 'Treatments'?”

.:Of course not! I was not a patient. Merely a guard:.

“Yeah, sure.” Flatline pointed to the light monitor displaying the blackened damage of Mirage's processor. “And the presence of deep code damage, within the context of the _New Institute?_ ”

Mirage's field flashed with surprise. .:Nonsense! Prowl said they were short-staffed and just needed a capable body present for a few nights! You don't think they would have... _done_ something... to me... but what would they have done?:.

“No idea,” said Flatline. “Well, actually, lots of ideas. Mirage, you know...” Flatline swiveled his chair to face him. “Several times you've said you weren't sure how the Autobots convinced you to join them.”

Mirage stared. 

“Maybe they realized just how important you'd be for them: an agent who could slip anywhere undetected. But _you_ didn't want to join.”

.:I never wanted to join:. Mirage echoed.

“Do you know why?”

Mirage's shoulders twitched. .:War is awful. Why would I want to join?:.

“You didn't know it was going to become a war back then. No one did.”

.:There were sides:.

“Yes, and?”

.:And... and Skywarp had picked his:.

“Yeah.” Flatline's finials swung down slowly. “I think you didn't want to find yourself on the opposite side of a conflict with him. And the Autobots weren't happy to hear that, so they gave you a little push to join _them_ instead... and they did so by taking away your memories of him.” Flatline pointed to the dead memory triangle on Mirage's current-day diagram.

.:I, that, I-:. 

“Skywarp's the lynchpin for all your memories. You remember everything about your life except him. The one time I tried to ask you about Skywarp in the context of war, you crashed.”

.:I did?:.

“You did. And your reboot symptoms were exactly in line with mnemo-repression-override attempts.”

.:What are you saying?:. Mirage's field flashed with distress.

“I think the Autobots shadowplayed you, Mirage,” said Flatline. “The shadowplay forces you to shut down if you think about things too hard. Skywarp, your pre-war companion, was erased from your mind, because he was, in their eyes, the thing preventing you from pledging allegiance to their side. The Autobots couldn't get rid of the real mech, though. It would be a _huge_ problem if the two of you ever got together and he tried to talk to you. So, they put a little line in your processor that makes you shut down if you try to think of pre-war Skywarp in the context of war.”

Mirage was shaking. He gripped the chair.

“You waltzed into the den of Cybertron's most infamous mnemosurgeons with _your_ ability. At even the slightest _hint_ of resistance they would've needled you.” Flatline's finials went straight out sideways. “Ugh.”

.:No! No, that's awful! They wouldn't have done that to me!:.

“No?” Flatline typed at the monitors. “The deep code malfunctions I mentioned? They're not particularly difficult to detect, if the medic listens to your symptoms and investigates using a few well-known tests. It's something that would have been caught and treated right away at your 'enlistment.' If they had _wanted_ to treat it, that is. If you had been an incoming soldier on _The Irradion_ and presented with this much damage, I would've wiped half your processor and reinstalled your mods. But they _didn't_ do that. We _know_ they didn't, because all that damage is _still there_.”

Mirage's shoulders shook, very slightly. .:But... but wiping my processor... I wouldn't have been _me_ anymore. Autobots don't do that kind of thing!:.

“Well, okay. But they didn't do _anything_ to help you. They didn't even try to _minimize_ the damage, to quarantine or block off unaffected portions. If they had done that instead of _nothing_ , much of your processor would've been spared this damage.”

Mirage's holo face flashed on, black and white and staticky at the edges. Bright, sparkling pink energon dripped from his eyes down his face. It fell from his chin and disappeared.

“I don't know why the Autobots didn't treat it right away, but they must have been _delighted_ once Hound's scanware became available. Maybe they were workin' him on the side, too. But you were the _perfect_ candidate for it, Mirage. At that point in your life, you were producing gamma-cybrobuteric acid at an elevated, but not life-disrupting, level due to that first warp. The Autobots _must_ have found the damage Skywarp's warp did when they were digging in your brain. They could not possibly miss it. Which means they chose not to fix it. They twisted it to their own advantage- enhancing your invisibility with perfect holo. Between that and your unquestioning loyalty via mnemosurgery, you were _engineered_ into your war role.”

.:How cruel! How _cruel!_ :. The monitors around Mirage beeped and flashed. .:How can I know if what you speak is the truth!:.

“Look at the reconstruction,” said Flatline. “Your processor at the time of the warp injury,” Flatline pointed to the third monitor. “Now, hit it with mnemosurgery.” The image flashed. The processor cracked further, the spidering lines of damage thickened, crossing and tunneling between the mods. One of the memory triangles went black. “See that? It fits the degradation of your processor perfectly up until about two million years ago. Which, most puzzlingly, is when your production of gamma-cybrobuteric acid began to overwhelm you and you started having hallucinations. But what made _that_ change? If you had been producing an elevated but steady level of gamma-cybrobuteric acid for two million years, what suddenly triggered you to produce _more?_ ”

.:I don't know!:.

The image of Mirage's processor flashed again “A _second_ mnemosurgical event, halfway through the war,” said Flatline. “Inserting two mnemosurgical events into the initial, damaged situation caused by Skywarp, predicts out to your exact pattern of damage today.” The shapes and lines of the image deformed and blackened until they matched the current-day diagram perfectly. “The question is, why did they needle you _again_ halfway through the war? It caused a tremendous amount of damage. What was worth it?”

Mirage's field sputtered. His holo face dissolved into static. Garbled, anguished data came through the comm. His breaths shuddered through his frame. The plastic chair cracked under his fingers.

“Whoa, easy,” said Flatline. He swiveled his chair to face Mirage fully. “Breathe, mech. Breathe.”

.:Flatline:. sent Mirage, the comm teetering on the edge of controlled panic. His biolights surged and waned in a sickening pattern. .:Will you check something for me?:.

“Yes.” Flatline grabbed a light monitor. “What am I checking?”

.:Skywarp and I each saved a bit of his original wingtips. Inside. Like how you did my glass piece. I can't... I can't see everything in there. Will you... will you tell me if his wingtip is there?:.

“Uh... sure.”

Shaking, Mirage opened his chest. His spark chamber remained tightly closed. Flatline resized the light monitor to a small rectangle and shone its intensified beam into Mirage's chest. His finials went down. “Hard to see...” He stooped, very nearly poking his head inside of Mirage.

.:Is it?:.

“I don't see anything...” Flatline swung the light around. The inside of Mirage's chest had been painted many times over the years. He squinted. “There are several locations where it looks like objects have been removed. Possibly objects related to previous frames-”

.:Is there a wingtip! It's shaped like this:.

A hologram of a rounded, black triangle appeared inside Mirage's chest.

“There... there _was_ something shaped like that. Right here, opposite your spark.” Flatline _very_ gently traced the wingtip pattern on the inside of Mirage's chest. It was faint, a place where something had been wrenched out and paint had filled in the cracks unevenly.

A nauseated feeling swept through Mirage's field. .:They took it. They took _everything._ :.

Flatline pulled his hand out of Mirage's chest just before it snapped shut.

Mirage shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself. .:They took _everything_ :. Shaking and flashing his biolights, Mirage collapsed back in his chair. 

Flatline grabbed him by the shoulders. “C'mon, c'mon, stay with me.” 

.:....:::!!!:::....:. A blast of static rang in his audials. 

Flatline grimaced. “I know it's hard, but try to communicate with words.”

.:They _used_ me!:. Unsteady breaths wracked Mirage's frame again. His field flared out in anger. .:They _all_ used me! They _ruined my mind! **They shadowplayed me!**_ And then they **_took everything!_** :.

“Yes, they did,” said Flatline. “Don't panic. Keep talking.” Awkwardly, he patted Mirage's upper arms. “I'm listening.”

.:There are so many things I wish to say! And I cannot! I cannot even cry aloud. I feel wretched and anguished! I can feel the sobs inside my spark and I cannot vocalize them. I feel so trapped, faceless as I am! I feel _broken!_ :.

Flatline nodded. “I can almost hear your sobs,” he said. “I've heard many.”

.:I cannot even hold my face in my hands and cry!:. Mirage demonstrated, his hands going through the black and white hologram. .:I have no real tears. I don't even have static! I am denied every physical means of expression!:.

“You are,” said Flatline. “Flood your field out, if it'll help. I don't mind.” He braced himself.

Mirage's face flickered off and he buried his helm in his arms. Waves of sorrow pulsed out of him. He leaned over the consoles and sobbed, soundlessly.

Flatline discreetly turned the consoles off. He placed a hand on his chest. He thought he had braced himself for the grief, but he had not expected something this strong. It smashed against his own spark and he bit down on his tongue to distract himself from its pull. Grief was universal, and he steadied himself against it. It was so very similar to his own.

Flatline defaulted to his medic training and streamed out a calming field. He pulled his chair closer to Mirage. “It's okay, let it out.”

Mirage flashed between invisibility and visibility. Shadows appeared in the room. Flatline studied them. They flitted and burst to the waves of grief pulsing from Mirage. It was disconcerting- like _seeing_ someone else's feelings.

He gently tapped Mirage's shoulder. “I don't want to interrupt your emotional expression, but I also don't want you to have another episode. You're projecting into the room. Talk to me.”

Mirage pushed himself up and snapped a blank black and white face on. It crackled and pulsed at the edges. He clenched and unclenched his fists. The grief in his field slowly gave way to anger. .:I don't- I don't know what else to say:.

“S'okay. You didn't do anything wrong. It's a lot to take in at once and it's all horrible news.”

Mirage's body shuddered, a grotesque, uneven lurching of his plating. His field flashed with loneliness, pain, rage. 

“I'm sorry,” said Flatline weakly. “I know that probably doesn't count for much, but truly, this is an awful circumstance and I'm very-”

.:How do we fix it:.

“I don't know-”

.:How do we fix it!:. Mirage slammed his fist onto the consoles. .:All they've done to me! All they've _taken!_ No one takes from me! _No one!_ :.

Flatline watched him, finials twitching. The air crackled with a chaotic energy and Mirage threw himself to his feet. 

.: _ **No one!!**_ :. Two pillars of fire erupted behind Mirage, engulfing the body shop in flames. Smoke billowed out around him, flashing with embers.

Flatline jumped out of his chair. “Holy _shit!_ ” His processor nearly glitched as he backed away, shading his eyes from the bright light, trying to understand how Mirage had conjured the flames. Frantically, he assessed the data pouring into his HUD. No physical damage to the shop, no particulates in the air, no increase in temperature. No warnings from the shop's sensors. He shook his head. “This is an illusion, right, Mirage?”

He received a bitter, unintelligible blast of data through the comm in response. Mirage flickered in and out of visibility. His biolights blared at critical stress levels.

“Shit. You're gonna fry your own circuits doing this, Mirage! _Mirage!_ Stop!” Flatline squinted instinctively, even though the smoke did not touch his eyes. “Goddamn, that's realistic!” He walked through the flames towards Mirage, flinching away from them despite knowing they weren't real. “Stop! You're only hurting yourself!”

.:-took from m- -define myself! Only I de-:. Mirage's comm was distorted with static. Parts of his body looked different. He was projecting pieces of previous frames over it. Hints of shimmering cloth appeared and disappeared around his face.

“We'll fix it!” said Flatline. “Mirage! Look at me! We'll fix it!” He reached out. Heatless flames raced down his forearms and he resisted the urge to jump back. “C'mon, mech. Don't make me killswitch you. Neither of us needs that!”

.:No one!:.

“That's right,” said Flatline. “No one shoulda done that to you. We'll fix it.” Flatline put his hand on Mirage's shoulder. “C'mon. Can you feel me?” He shook Mirage's shoulder. “You're not alone, Mirage. I'm right here. I'll help you. We'll get back what they took.”

Mirage's distorted comms paused. The blank holo face swiveled towards him, eyes unfocused.

“You heard me. I'm gonna help you. Okay? Put the fire away, Mirage. You're burning through energon and reliving your old damage in the worst possible way.”

The flames froze and hung in the air, glitching in areas. Embers hovered in staticky smoke.

“Wow, that looks _weird_.” Flatline touched one of the embers hovering above Mirage's helm. It disappeared with a flash. “I mean, good. Keep... undoing this.” Flatline shook Mirage's shoulder again. “Turn off the projection, Mirage.”

Energon leaked from Mirage's yellow eyes.

“It's okay to cry. Even figuratively,” said Flatline. “Cry all you want, just turn the fire off. You can do it. You're a strong mech, Mirage! You've lived through more processor damage than almost anyone else I know.”

Mirage's holo face vanished. The energon remained, glistening along the bottom of his exposed optics and dripping onto his neck cables.

“Oh, _shit._ ”

The body shop darkened considerably as the fiery illusion disappeared. Mirage's biolights dimmed and he fell forward. His field receded.

Flatline caught him. 

The former Decepticon held Mirage awkwardly for a moment, mentally categorizing all the symptoms he had just seen displayed. When that task was complete, he dragged Mirage to the med bed and plugged various lines and wires into him. He summoned the light monitors and reviewed the scans they had taken during Mirage's outburst.

“Fascinating... also, fuck.” 

Flatline tapped the monitors.

He tapped his foot in irritation. 

After an entire ten seconds spent searching for the perfect summation of his feelings on recent events, Flatline reset his vocalizer and loudly proclaimed, “ _fucking Autobots._ ”

~~

Mirage studied the data pads before him, dismissing hungry alerts from his tanks. The apartment was quiet and warm, the long, dark night outside kept at bay with crystal-shaped colored lights hung around the walls. He sat at the table, unconsciously tracing the words Skywarp had carved into it over the years.

The data, decoded, were details on his next freelance job. It seemed easy enough: Mirage was to observe a local cargo port for a specific time frame on a specific day. And that was all.

The information was presented in a much more organized and coherent manner than he was accustomed to getting from clients. There were exact dimensions of the facility (in three different measuring systems) and the exact location he was to stand. There was no name, of course. The anonymous client could be anyone- from law enforcement seeking new hires to the more nefarious types. Whoever it was, Mirage aimed to please. He had received excellent feedback from all his previous clients. Some even threw him a bonus and passed his contact information on.

A familiar flash of light burst through the room.

“Welcome home, darling,” said Mirage without looking up. He heard the muffled, crinkly _thump_ of a carry out bag being placed on the floor. “Thank you for getting dinner. I forgot.”

**_THUD_ **

The data pads bounced up and clacked back down onto the table. Mirage jolted out of his seat.

Skywarp was on his knees, arms crossed over his chest, his field filling the room with pain. He cried out, a sharp sound that dug its way through Mirage's plating and made his spark ache.

“Oh! Oh, darling!” Mirage ran to him. He steadied his own field as best he could. Skywarp's was _strong_ and when he couldn't control it, it became overwhelming. “What is it? What's wrong?”

The corners of Skywarp's eyes were darkened with tiny, whip-like burns. As Mirage watched, they filled with static.

“Oh! Oh, you must be in such pain!” Mirage frantically touched Skywarp's shoulders, his forearms, his helm. “Where does it hurt? I don't see any damage or blood. Should I call for a doctor?”

“N- nuh,” choked Skywarp. His biolights flashed in a dizzying pattern that made Mirage squint.

“Please, tell me what's wrong!”

Skywarp shook his head. His eyes were nearly white. The static grew thicker and thicker, until a tiny tendril of electricity whipped out and stung the corner of his eye. He winced.

“If you cannot say it, show me!”

Skywarp shook his head again. The plates of his chest clicked open and closed. He hunched over, pushing Mirage away with his wingtips. The pain radiating from him was immense, a mixture of physical and emotional turmoil that Mirage had never felt from him before. It tore through Mirage's field and pierced his spark: _violation_.

“Oh, darling!” Mirage cupped Skywarp's chin in his hands. “Please tell me what to do! You're hurting so badly!” Tears formed at the corners of his own eyes; thin trails of bright, sparkling energon wound down his face. “Please at least let me comfort you! As you have always done for me in the past!”

Skywarp, seeing Mirage's tears, howled in pain and embarrassment. Mirage felt a familiar gathering of energy in the air and gripped Skywarp's shoulder. “No! _Don't leave!_ Let me help you!”

Skywarp stared at him through static, his mouth twisted in agony, his chest plates rattling.

“Stay with me!” Mirage shoved his fingers into the thick seams of Skywarp's side. It hurt. It pinched his fine fingertips, but Skywarp wouldn't be able to leave without taking Mirage with him. Mirage pushed out with his own field, so thin and weak in comparison. He sent out what lay in the depths of his spark and hoped Skywarp could feel it. “ _Who did this to you?_ ”

~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of chapter note: The crystal-impurity disease the Camiens suffer is very, very loosely based on the symptoms human suffer when parasitized by _Dracunculus medinensis_ : the worm grows along the limbs (often the legs), and, if broken during removal, causes an incredibly painful reaction.
> 
> Re: all that crazy stuff revealed in this chapter: Most of what you're reading in this fic is headcanon that expands on teeny, tiny scraps in the comic. Mirage's hallucinations are canonically due to an abundance of the gamma-cybrobuteric acid (TF #40 "The Possible Light"). And he is seen in the background of a comic panel in MTMTE #14 serving as a guard for the New Institute. Everything else you've read was extrapolated from those two canon bits. [and it's an AU cuz I'm honestly not sure how the timing lines up for everything in canon, regarding when he was at the New Institute vs when the war started, so I'm establishing an internal timeline that hopefully makes sense]
> 
> Re: that single comic panel in MTMTE #14- I'll always wonder if JRO stuck him there for a reason or if he was just a random pick.


	15. Choices

“ _hhhhhhhcchhk!_ ” Mirage jolted upright. He gasped. Skywarp's pain coursed through his body. His spark contorted as if a surgical tool had been thrust into it and twisted. The hovering monitors flashed red and sounded warnings. The med bed fluttered against him, trying to steady his shaking frame. 

Mirage struck his chest, willing the repulsive feeling to fade. As it did, his mind filled with fire and ugly medical diagrams and the most _horrible_ diagnosis a doctor had _ever_ given him-

The Autobots had-

_The Autobots had taken_ -

Mirage frantically scratched at the Autobot badge on his chest. It was blazing hot to the touch. He dug his fingers into the seams where the soldered-on metal and his plating met. It hurt. He gripped and pulled until the badge's red paint was scored with scratches but it still wouldn't budge-

A screech filled the room as a huge shadow yanked the curtain aside. It ran to the bed and grabbed Mirage's wrists. “Whoa! Whoa, calm down. Stop!”

.:Let go of me!:. 

Mirage struggled, but the shadow was stronger and had the advantage of standing over him. Its flashing red eyes and towering black silhouette triggered four million year's worth of war responses in Mirage's mind. _Decepticon! Fight!!!_ Mirage pushed against him with all his might. Anger flared through his field and he spat noise through the comm.

“Mirage, stop!” said the mech. He forced Mirage's flailing arms down to his sides. “You're angry. You're allowed to be angry. But you're not allowed to hurt yourself! Understood?”

Mirage watched, in horror, as his own biolights went out. His lines burned with pain and the vents of his body sputtered hot air. .:Ow, _ow!_ :. He tried to kick, struggle, get away, but the mech pinned him down. .:What are you doing to me, Decepticon?!:.

The mech's field flashed with hurt. “Nothing. You're dangerously low on fuel and you're really pissed off. You're straining and overheating. Stop moving!”

At that, Mirage _finally_ noticed the frantic alerts pinging across his processor. Low fuel was hours ago. Now he was running on fumes. The heat of starvation was muddling his mind. Mirage fought every instinct inside of him, every whisper in his spark that said _fight the Decepticon!_ , and forced his body to relax.

The menacing shape above him suddenly snapped into a familiar face and frame.

.:Oh! Flatline!:.

Flatline held his arms a moment longer, then released him. “Welcome back.” He read the output scrolling across the screens, finials down. 

Mirage took shuddering breaths. .:Flatline, I consider us to have an amicable understanding. I apologize. I didn't mean to call you-:.

“Don't worry about it. It's an ingrained wartime reaction. Happens to all the severely injured Autobots that see me,” said Flatline. “Don't move. Just stay still.”

_Autobots._

Mirage groaned inwardly and did his very best not to move. The pain in his lines made it somewhat easier. .:I just had the most awful dream. _Please_ tell me the last thing I remember happening in this room was also a dream!:.

Flatline squinted at the monitors. “If you're referring to my shadowplay hypothesis, I'm afraid it was not.”

.:No, _no-_ :. Mirage's lines burned anew as he kicked. His vents hissed. .:How _dare_ they-:.

Flatline sighed and pushed his legs down. “We _just_ went over this.”

Critical alerts pulsed through Mirage's processor. They overrode his emotional output and his legs fell motionless to the bed. 

Mirage filled the short space between him and Flatline with curses.

“Heh. That was the most eloquent, if redundant, use of 'frag-fuckers' I've ever heard. But you _gotta_ calm down. I'm gonna get you some energon in just a second. Other than the starvation pain, how are you feeling?”

Mirage cut his next barrage of profanity short. .:My head hurts. My eyes hurt:. An undignified whimper went through his field. .:My spark hurts:.

Flatline retrieved a thermos and a feeding adaptor from the cabinet. Mirage reached for them, but Flatline gently pushed his hand away. He set the adaptor in Mirage's open helm himself. “You expended a lot of energy on a stressful, powerful hard light display yesterday.” He pulled one of the stools up to the bed and sat, slowly pouring the thermos's contents into the adaptor. “You melted 43% of the subcutaneous circuitry in your helm and popped half the blood vessels in your eyes. I scraped and replaced them while you were out.”

.:Thank you:. Mirage shivered as the energon hit his tanks. 

“I thought a clear, fact-based explanation of the mnemosurgical timeline would give you the emotional distance necessary to prevent a bad reaction.” Flatline's finials went down. “Your reaction was extremely bad.”

.:Oh, do you think so?:.

“Yeah. And after reviewing our conversation yesterday, I believe my approach was at fault. But I'm not sure how else I could have presented the information.” Flatline's field suddenly was very professional, very neutral and held at a minimal distance. “I have a good record, Mirage. I've only made one major mistake in the course of my entire career here at Iacon.”

.:Me?:.

Flatline blinked. “What? No. Not you. I won't let that happen. No one leaves this shop worse than they came in. _No one_. Never again.”

.:That _is_ a good motto. I would prefer not to leave the shop worse than I arrived:.

Flatline made an exasperated noise. “What I'm getting at, and what I want to be totally transparent about here, is that I have _no idea_ how to properly treat the processor-related side of your issues. I'm not that kind of doctor. I was going to tell you that after the shadowplay explanation had concluded.”

Between the lingering pain in his lines and the slowly churning anger at the Autobots in his chest, it took Mirage a moment to grasp the meaning of Flatline's words. A wave of panic went through his field. .:Flatline, you said you would help me! You said you would get back what they took! When everything was fire and rage, those were the only words I could hear you saying!:.

“Yeah. And I will. But-”

.:And now you're saying you can't help me!:.

“Ah,” said Flatline. “I didn't say that. You didn't let me finish. Technically _I_ don't have the expertise. But I have reached out to an acquaintance. The thing is, mnemosurgical reconstruction is a relatively new field. There's a lot we don't know. Especially about outliers and the unidentified energies they employ.”

.:What are you getting at?:.

“You have a tremendous amount of damage in your processor. There aren't a lot of choices available to you.” Flatline set the empty thermos aside and grabbed another one. He tipped it into the adaptor. “So, I want to know exactly what you want. I'm gonna get you a face. That's a guarantee. It's not part of the question. The question is: what do _you_ want, in regards to your memories?”

.:What do you mean?:.

“I mean... do you want me to block off the damage? You'll lose the pieces you've remembered and you won't remember anything new. You won't remember Skywarp, or what the Autobots did, or that it was they who did it. We can insert a stabilizer to slow production of gamma-cybrobuteric acid. You'll get your face and have a steady mental foundation. You'll have a stable life. Hell, if you want it, you could probably have a _normal_ life. Or do you want to try to access what's been lost? It's possible that the procedure my associate recommended will work for you. It does have a good success rate among non-outliers. But I don't know how... how hurtful or difficult remembering those things will be for you. I don't know how painful it will be to carry on, knowing what your Autobot friends did to you. I don't know what it will do to your warpy space connection and hallucinations. But that's a decision _you_ have to make, not me. And once you have, we will proceed from there.”

Mirage's internal fuel gauges lit up and slowly filled. As he thought over Flatline's question, he monitored the energon's purity level stat. It was very high. Flatline was sharing nice stuff. The pain in his lines abated and his vents were cooler.

He thought of the small apartment he and Skywarp had had. He thought of the dream he had just woken from- how painful it had been to see Skywarp kneeling with static in his eyes. How deeply he must have felt for Skywarp, to feel dreamed pain in his waking spark. What else could he not remember? How many years had he lost?

Mirage thought of the ideal Autobot, the pledge he had taken at his initiation ceremony. He thought of the millions of missions he had taken on behalf of the Autobot philosophy. He thought of Optimus Prime's speeches about freedom and justice and inalienable rights. He had believed in all that.

Maybe he still did.

His hands curled into fists.

.:If Skywarp was so important to me that they wanted me to forget, than I want to remember:. Mirage comm'd firmly. .:I want to remember _all_ of it:.

“Good,” said Flatline. “Cuz I think that's the only way you're really gonna be able to get past this. But you gotta do it one step at a time. At _this_ very moment, you need to replenish your reserves. From there, we are going to tread very carefully. To be honest, I was only an hour away from pumping energon into you intravenously.”

.:Oh:. Mirage didn't know much about intravenous feedings. Except that Ratchet _hated_ doing them. The thought of the Autobot medic sent a flare of anger through him. Had Ratchet known? .:I can't believe they did that to me. All those years working beside them! Befriending them! Even _loving_ some of them! Who among my fellow Autobots knew??:.

Flatline shrugged.

.:Decepticons don't even do that!:.

“Nope.”

.:And it's a wonder they didn't, given what they _did_ do!:. Mirage recognized the rage building in his field and reigned it back. _Tread very carefully,_ he thought. .:Why didn't they?:.

“We never had the tech. Autobots snapped up all the mnemosurgeons before the war started and kept their secrets close.”

.:Oh:. 

“Probably for the best, to be honest.” Flatline grabbed one of the light monitors and tapped at it.

.:And yet Skywarp had joined the Decepticons:. A treasonous thought occurred to Mirage- that maybe he _personally_ would have been better off joining them, too. Of course, their actions were despicable. No matter what the Autobots had done to him, he could never be a Decepticon. Still, he wondered. .:What would you have done?:.

“Huh?”

.:If you had... if I had... if Megatron had said he wanted me on your side, but I didn't want to be. What would you have done?:.

“Aww, I don't wanna talk about that,” said Flatline. He reached for a can of energon on the counter. The lid popped off with a hiss. He removed his face mask.

.:I want to know:.

Flatline sighed. “There woulda been a few options.” He took a swig of his drink. “The easiest one would be to beat it into you. Scare you into joining us. If that didn't work, maybe some kinda blackmail or threatening loved ones or something like that.”

.:But no mind wiping?:.

“Ehhh...” Flatline gave him a pained swing of the finials. “There isn't much gray space between a mech as they are and a full mind wipe. Mnemosurgery being the gray space we didn't have. If Megatron _really_ had wanted you, and you resisted all other persuasive methods... As I said before, you presenting with _your_ damage, I would've wiped at least half your mods. But if you hadn't been damaged? I dunno. Outliers were less disposable than regular mechs. Maybe Megatron woulda let me experiment on you. Try to transfer your power to someone else. A _full_ mind wipe has a... _low_ percentage chance of working out how you'd like it to.”

_In other words, a high death rate,_ thought Mirage. .:Would you have taken my wing tip?:.

“I dunno. Probably not. It would've been a curiosity I had no time to explore. Easier to just leave it in there.” Flatline chugged his drink and grabbed another. “I feel like you're trying to put all this on a scale. Judge Autobots vs Decepticons. See who would've been worse to you.”

.:Something like that, yes:.

“Well, here's the thing.” Flatline popped the cap off the second drink. “They both did terrible, shitty things. Blanking one mech is a hell of a lotta gross. And since they did it to you, that means they probably did it to others. But can you honestly say that's worse than extincting a whole planet? Or melting mechs alive? I dunno. I _think_ the answer is no, though.” He guzzled the drink and set it aside. He pulled a cloth out of a cabinet and took Mirage's hand. “But, at this point, it doesn't matter who woulda treated you worse. You can't go back. You can't change it. The war's over. You can only go forward.”

.:I wonder who made the decision:. sent Mirage. Little flairs of anger came through his field. 

“You're not listening to me.”

.:I wonder who decided that my life was worth less than however much use I had for them:.

Flatline sighed. He rubbed Mirage's fingertips with the cloth. The red paint from his Autobrand came off easily.

.:I know all their names:. This comm had a hard edge to it. 

Flatline raised an orbital arch. “That's list-making talk. Sounds like you're going for the Rehabilitation Through Revenge angle. It's a tempting one, but I dunno how far it's gonna take you.”

.:It will go exactly as far as I _wish_ it to. For any information I can't find, I will find the mech who can-:.

“You misunderstand.” Flatline brushed his chest unconsciously. “I dunno how far it's gonna take you _towards healing._ The mechs who were friends with the mechs who died to make me- what if they had killed _me_ in revenge? Then their friends would still be dead _and_ I'd be dead. And, years later, you'd be out a glass face. You'd be stuck with a metal print.”

.:I didn't say I'd _kill_ them:.

“What would you want from them, then? Say it was Prime. What would you want from Prime?” Flatline waved the red-streaked cloth at Mirage. “Money? An apology?”

.: _Justice_. I want him to see the suffering he caused. How _wrong_ it was. What it _did_ to me:. Mirage straightened his shoulders. .:The parallels between now and the time I spent recovering with Skywarp are not lost to me. Once again, the world is blurry and I have learned of a painful betrayal. But this time I can make a different choice. Long ago, I left the temple and _never_ went back- I never tried to help any of the others that were trapped there. And _they_ are the shadows that disturb me the most. Not the jeweled hands that claw at me in dreams. But the ones I left behind- they're the ones who walk beside me, who follow me at night:. Mirage shuddered. .:As you said, it's likely there are other Autobots who were reprogrammed. I won't turn my back on them. I will expose the whole dirty affair and find the others like me. I will make Prime look me in the eyes while I ask him if it was _worth_ it:.

“And if he said yes?”

Mirage shuddered again. One of the monitors beeped. .:I don't know if that would be worse than if he said no:. Mirage's biolights flickered back on and brightened, reinvigorated with fuel. .:I think I would really enjoy yelling at him, though. Pointing out his goddamn hypocrisy. Shove the Autobot ideals of freedom and justice right back at him:.

“Heh. I'd like to see that.” Flatline indicated the body shop with a sweep of his arms. “I might be biased, but I think you'll find the most efficient path away from your pain is that towards recovery. Recovery first, then justice.”

.:I have half a mind to demand an audience with him without a face:. 

“That _would_ be sensational, wouldn't it? Marching right into Lord Starscream's throne room and accusing the greatest ally of his Camien adversaries of crimes against free will.” Flatline stared off into the distance, indulging in the imagined scene. “Assuming it was Prime, of course.”

.:Of course:. echoed Mirage. .:If I could only remember! I'm sure I could figure it out:. He gripped the sides of his helm. .:Ugh, Prowl. I wonder if he knew. He was always so _smart_. Always three steps ahead. And Jazz! If Prowl knew, _he_ must've-:.

“Dwelling on hypotheticals is unproductive,” said Flatline. He jabbed his finger at a light monitor. “Recovery first. _Then_ justice.” 

.:Very well. What is the recovery plan, then?:.

“I sent the progression model of your processor damage to an acquaintance, a reconstruction mnemospecialist,” said Flatline. “He was stunned by it. He's studied so many victims, he can tell who their mnemosurgeon was in 80% of the cases. The pros are all distinguishable. Each surgeon had their own particular style. He can identify them by the tiny traces they left behind. My acquaintance agreed with my assessment about the two separate instances. He said the surgeon who butchered your processor during the first mnemosurgical event did a _terrible_ job.”

.:Fortune smiles upon me again:.

“He notes his surprise, though, as this particular surgeon was apparently very good at what he did. I think it probably has something to do with your outlier ability. Maybe you tried to go invisible while he was operating and it all went bad.”

.:Was your acquaintance able to tell who the mnemosurgeon was?:.

“He has a guess...”

.:Well?:.

“Uh...” Flatline flicked through the light monitor. “Someone named... Chromedome?”

Surprise flickered through Mirage's field. “He was-! How _dare_ he have done that and waltz around the Lost Light with his conjunx! And me mere meters away, with such holes in my memory!”

“My acquaintance left a note here saying that Chromedome specialized in erasing away loved ones.”

.:Well! I wish someone would erase _his_ loved one away! See how _he_ likes it...:. The comm ended in angry static.

“My acquaintance goes on to say the second mnemosurgical event was likely done by either Lobe or Cerebros. Neither of them were able to skillfully navigate the 'ravaged landscape' of your processor. His words, not mine. Hence the second round of damage.” 

.:I don't think I've ever met _either_ of those mechs:.

“Well, frankly...” Flatline made an uneasy gesture. “You wouldn't know, would you?” 

Irritation swept through Mirage's field. .:I cannot deny you that:.

“And my acquaintance was _fascinated_ by the outlier aspect of it all.”

.:I do so _love_ being the subject of fascination:. Mirage picked at one of the med bed's panels. It slid away from him. .:At least I have some names to start with:. _Chromedome._ The Lost Light felt a billion lightyears away. Perhaps it was.

Flatline's finials perked up. “But the good news is that my acquaintance sifted through all the research done on PTSD and post-mnemosurgery treatments. He has a procedure we can try!”

.:What kind of procedure?:. 

“Something to help you remember what you've forgotten. My acquaintance sent me the sequences. The med bed can handle it. I've read all the literature I can get my hands on for it.” Flatline waved at the monitors. Half of them flickered and displayed medical articles. “It has a pretty good success rate, around 62% of patients report a positive outcome.”

.:And the other 38%?:. 

“Mostly no change. A small percentage reported worse symptoms for a short period of time before leveling out to pre-treatment levels, due to how the procedure works. Basically, if it doesn't work, you undo it, and you go back to how you were before the treatment.”

.:Hmm:.

Flatline shrugged. “If it were me, I'd try it.”

.:It's not dangerous?:.

“It's _mostly_ not dangerous. The most important thing is to have proper support while the program is running through your processor. You're put into a suspended animation, a coma, so that the program can run unimpeded. Everything in your frame is then controlled by the support system: life functions, _all_ your modules and databases, et cetera. This, of course, is a tremendously delicate state to be in. If someone disturbs you while you're under, that'd be disastrous.”

Mirage's shoulders tensed. 

“But you'd be here with me. There's no reason you should be disturbed. I'll clear out all appointments around that day and I'll tell the guys to stay out. The shop has perimeter and interior alarms.” Flatline's missiles shifted. “No one's ever dared to break in here before. I don't see why it should happen when you're under.”

.:I'm not worried about that. Rather, does it... change my personality?:. Mirage glanced at the med bed. It was innocent enough, supporting him comfortably, as always. .:I don't like the idea of a program running unimpeded through my processor:.

“I wouldn't either, but I've reviewed the code.” Flatline snapped and a light monitor floated over. Its display ran through a cascade of numbers and characters. “It identifies damage associated with mnemosurgery, evaluates the modules affected, and works backwards to reconstruct their original structures. All scoured information is sequestered into and accessible via long term memory banks. Nothing is lost. It's just moved away. If it were a bullet that shattered inside you, it'd be like pulling all the pieces together, reconstructing both the bullet and the tissue that was shot, covering the bullet in a protective layer, and leaving it in the site until it was determined fully safe to remove.”

.:Why wouldn't you fully remove the bullet at that point?:.

“Just in case some of you was still stuck to it.”

Mirage projected a blank stare.

“It's not a perfect metaphor,” said Flatline, clicking his face mask back on. “It's _mnemosurgery_ for fuck's sake. It's the most horrible, complex, invasive thing the Cybertronian race has ever invented. Nothing's fully removed or erased or deleted until it's 100% confirmed not to be needed by you anymore.”

Mirage half-watched the blurry code cascade down the monitor. .:What is the end result?:.

“The most thoroughly-documented case file I've read so far was about a mech who'd been needled so he forgot how to transform. The end result of this procedure was that he could transform again. I'm not fully certain what's going on in your processor- it's heavily related to personal memory and information regarding your past. Not to mention how the mnemosurgery and memories react to your outlier ability and warpy space. That's a big ol' 'no related data found here,' by the way. Not a lot of research has been done on outliers.” Flatline flicked through the light monitor. “Your issues are more... nebulous than just 'forgetting' how to transform. I'd think, though, that the best-case scenario is you'd be able to use your outlier ability without the hallucinations and you'd be able to fully access all of your memories.”

.:That would be wonderful!:.

Flatline nodded.

.:You're _sure_ the bed is properly equipped?:.

“Yes. I've used it to put a few other patients into medical comas before. Nothing _this_ extensive, but the bed has all the necessary components. If you want, I can lead you through them when you're feeling stronger.”

Mirage nodded. .:When do you think is a prudent time to undergo this procedure?:.

“As soon as possible, to be honest,” said Flatline. “Like we've discussed before, if you don't seek treatment for your processor issues, a new face isn't gonna do much. You're liable to break it again in the future. Not to mention, your body will be much more amenable to adapting the new tissue if it's not also fighting itself on the inside.”

.:Alright:. 

Flatline tilted his head, eyes dimming. “First Aid is contacting me. I didn't tell him what happened yesterday. I felt, even though we are both your acting physicians, that those recent revelations were too personal to share without your consent. Do you want me to relate yesterday's events to him?”

A gulf of dread opened in Mirage's gut. .:What if he already knows? I don't know how I could take that- if he knew and yet spoke kindly to me on our journey here, listened to my nightmares, brought me to you-:.

“I won't tell him,” said Flatline. “Be right back.” He carefully removed the feeding adaptor, pushed a light monitor towards Mirage, and left the patient alcove.

Mirage held the screen close to his eyes. It was a subfolder in his patient file titled, “Evidence of Mnemosurgical Interference.” There were hundreds of sub-subfolders containing raw data from the med bed, scans and images of his body, videos of the disease progression chart and his holographic outburst. There were dated and signed accounts from Flatline himself, including evaluations and a firsthand description of the outburst. There were also transcripts of conversations, including one Mirage didn't recall having:

[note: fitting of teeth and tongue prototypes concurrent with conversation]  
 **Patient:** How much does the med bed record?  
 **Self:** Pertinent data such as vitals, biolight intensity, processor output, spark-   
**Patient:** But not dreams, correct?  
 **Self:** The med bed can't record dreams. Just the data your frame gives it.  
 **Patient:** Is it sentient?  
 **Self:** No.  
 **Patient:** Did you know that when you lie your left finial pokes out slightly more than the right?  
 **Self:** It's semi-sentient. I guess. It can't think for itself the way we can, but it's smart. It can predict, organize, and plan.  
 **Patient:** I swear one time it heard me. It responded to a fanciful thought of hacking.  
 **Self:** It has self-preservation coding.   
**Patient:** Really? That's incredibly complex. Who coded that?  
 **Self:** It was copied from an Autobot with extensive war experience.  
 **Patient:** Oh. Who?  
 **Self:** I'm not at liberty to say.  
 **Patient:** Hmph. Did I tell you I had another dream this morning? About Skywarp?  
 **Self:** No.  
 **Patient:** Something really lovely had happened. I don't remember what. He gave me a stone of the most beautiful color. I wish I could hold it again. It was dazzling in the light.  
 **Self:** Interesting.  
 **Patient:** I wonder where it is now.  
 **Self:** Did you have it during the war?  
 **Patient:** Have what?  
 **Self:** The stone.   
**Patient:** What stone?  
 **Self:** The stone Skywarp gave you.  
 **Patient:** Skywarp? I don't like talking about the war.  
 **Self:** I know, but this is just about the stone. Did you still have it-  
[note: patient exhibits primary mnemo-prompted shut down procedures]  
 **Self:** Oh, no no, don't fade on me again.   
[note: 100 units of GJ 244 injected into patient via med bed]   
**Self:** C'mon, don't crash. Don't crash.  
[note: passage of 2.598 minutes]  
 **Patient:** Oh... my head. What happened?  
 **Self:** An adverse reaction. I'll make a note of the factors that prompted it. We'll avoid them from here on out.  
 **Patient:** Alright.  
 **Self:** We're done with the fitting. I'll let Quickmix know the results.  
 **Patient:** Thank you. I appreciate not being subjected to his comments.

“Maybe recovery entails an impossible search that will last the length of your lifetime,” Flatline said. Mirage startled. “But at least it gives you something constructive to do.”

Mirage was silent.

“I'm hinting at my own-”

.:I know what you're hinting at:. Mirage handed the light monitor back to Flatline. .:I don't intend to take that long. What did First Aid want?:.

“General update. I told him the latest prototype was very promising. He said he had gotten a long-range communication from the Lost Light. 'Hound et. al. say hi' and 'Bluestreak is watching the bar for you.'”

.:Oh. Thank you for relaying the message:. 

_Oh no,_ Mirage thought. _Hound..._ He had been one of Mirage's wartime delights. They had reconnected on the Lost Light and his advances hadn't been lost on Mirage. In fact, they were supposed to have had a private meet up a few days after his accident, but Mirage had cancelled without an explanation. With the life-altering breaking of his face and the subsequent memory flood, Mirage had forgotten all about him... Mirage shook himself. His recent dreams left him with no desire for Hound, but that didn't mean the poor mech should go without some kind of acknowledgment. He was a good friend. 

Mirage sighed inwardly. He didn't feel strong enough to add that interaction to his list of exhausting, recovery-related things to do.

“-hear me?”

.:What?:.

“I said, 'what's going on?' Your eyes have that dull look and I can actually feel your field.”

.:The message reminded me of a private issue I will have to settle once I am recovered:. sent Mirage. _Oh, what if_ Hound _knew,_ he thought. He quickly walled off that train of thought. .:I find myself suspecting all my friends, now. I will go mad. I badly need to discover exactly who was responsible for this:.

“You will,” said Flatline. 

.:What would you say to those who created you? Those who ripped out part of your spark chamber to make you something you didn't even want to be?:.

Flatline's eyes darkened. “I have _nothing_ to say to them.”

.:Nothing?:.

“Well. Maybe, _'why didn't you fuckers **pour** me a badge instead of taking it out of my spark chamber?!'”_

.:Oh:. Mirage, despite himself, pressed back into the bed. Flatline's angry outburst was tinged with a cruelty-born anguish. And who could blame him? Assuming the Decepticons of _The Irradion_ had had enough metal, it was obvious they should have poured the badge instead of carving into their new recruits. Mirage hadn't thought of that. He supposed Flatline had had _plenty_ of time to think of it, after all these years of living the way he had. .:Cruelty:.

“Yeah. Or, in another word, _tradition._ ” Flatline sighed. “There is something I'd like to say to the ten Autobots who made me, though.”

.:What's that?:.

Flatline hesitated.

.:What would you say?:.

“'Thanks.'”

Mirage's field rippled with surprise.

“I have ten dead mechs in my own flesh and sometimes I don't know what to do with that knowledge. Ten mechs who never got to go home again, never saw their friends again, never got to say that one last thing they wanted to say, or travel, or do whatever the hell they had always wanted to do. Ten mechs, melted alive and swirled together and molded into _me_. I don't hear them whispering to me or feel them reaching out from across the Well. But sometimes I wonder if I've let them down.” Flatline's biolights slowed and pulsed mournfully. “I'm pretty sure they wouldn't have wanted their bodies going towards the Decepticon army.”

.:No. Definitely not:.

“But... but maybe they'd be happy knowing that I'm helping people now. Mostly other Autobots. At least, at first. Decepticons don't like coming to me. Now it's mostly Camiens, cuz I live in this part of Iacon, but who cares. We're all pretty similar on the inside. Mostly. Somewhat.”

.:I think they would have been happy, knowing that you're helping people now:. 

Flatline's finials moved up in the tiniest smile. Mirage caught it right away.

.:Am I the first Autobot to tell you that?:.

“Yeah.”

.:I mean it:.

Flatline pulled his field in. “Thanks,” he said, his vocalizer just the _tiniest_ bit staticky at the edges.

.:You are welcome:. 

The little plates in Flatline's body twitched and he looked away. Mirage waited patiently for Flatline to pull himself together. Once his field streamed out normally again, Mirage continued. 

.:I suspect you're right about healing. But I am deeply stung by this recent revelation. I don't know what I will do! The people I thought I knew and whom I lived among betrayed me. Again. And how _bitter_ that feeling is:.

Flatline indicated his shop. “The best revenge is doing what you want and telling everyone else to fuck off.”

.:I don't think that's how that saying goes:.

“You're right,” said Flatline. “My version is better.”

Mirage sent an aggravated sigh through his field. Thinking about the Autobots made his spark achy and queasy in a way it hadn't been for millions of years. He forced himself to think of something else.

His mind immediately conjured up the image of Skywarp on his knees, gasping in pain. 

Barbs of irritation shot out of Mirage's field. .:I thought this bed prevented bad dreams:.

“It doesn't control your mind,” said Flatline. “It just simulates a sparkbeat against your plating. It's supposed to relax you.”

.:It didn't work:.

Flatline shrugged. “You went onto it in a bad state. Don't blame it. It just provided a sparkbeat.” He tapped at a monitor. “Do you, uh... need to talk about your dream?”

.:It was about Skywarp. When we were together. I wish I could _remember things_ properly:.

“Oh. Skywarp.” 

.:He was in _so_ much pain...:. Mirage touched his chest. .:The very worst kind. It was awful:.

“He didn't beat anyone up for it?”

.:No!:.

“Interesting.” Flatline eyed the monitors. Even mentioning his former lover had made Mirage's vitals stabilize a bit. Flatline seized the topic. “Skywarp is so _different_ in your accounts than he was during the war. He was always so _angry_. A really huge pain in the ass. I told you about the engine on _The Irradion,_ right?” 

.:You did. He _was_ a prankster. But he was gentle with me. He loved me very much:. 

“Yeah, so what the hell happened?” Flatline tapped his faceplate. “What made him change...”

.:I don't know:.

“No idea at all?”

.:Something painful:. sent Mirage, his biolights blinking in the pattern he had seen in his dream. .:Something awful. Perhaps something life-changing, as you felt, when you learned of your origins:.

“Y'know,” said Flatline, resting a fist under his chin. “I was thinking about that recently and I realized... Skywarp's interference with the warp drive is what led me to discovering those origins.”

.:Really!:.

“After the quantum engineers dug him outta the engine, his dumb aft landed in my med bay. While I put him back together he said some things. Patients spout a lot of nonsense when they're in pain, but this was different. It was on another level. He was crazy insistent. So, I pursued the information later.” 

.:What did he say?:.

“He said... 'I _hate_ Autobots! I'd rip them apart with my bare hands and piss on the remains!'”

A ripple of distaste came through Mirage's field. 

“A charming guy, as I've said. Then he yelled a lot about knowing what transporters look like and didn't want me to touch him. But I was the only medic, so tough shit for him.”

.:I see:.

“Now, the kind of mechs who got sent to _The Irradion_ all hated Autobots. That wasn't the interesting part. The interesting part was how _insistent_ Skywarp was about how stupid our transporter engineers were. I was never a fan of 'em, but they were _competent,_ at least by Decepticon standards. Skywarp kept ranting about how the transporter had heat coils instead of... whatever a transporter is supposed to have. He said it smelled like dead mechs in there and when I asked him to explain, all he said was either 'fuck you' or 'that's not what a transporter looks like.' I shrugged it off at the time, cuz he wasn't any more or less coherent than the rest of the idiots I was treating. But he was the only one who ever said anything about the transporter. And after a while, I noticed that he was right. The transporter _did_ smell like dead mechs. And it was always under construction. So, I snooped around. To be honest, I thought maybe some of the slave laborers had died in there and I was gonna scrap 'em for parts.”

.:Oh:.

“But they hadn't. Or, there weren't any parts, at least. Just melted metal and slag and burned energon. Do you know how _hot_ a furnace has to be before it burns energon? I can still smell it...” Flatline shook his head. “It took a long, _long_ time but eventually I figured out what was going on. I asked around, traded info for favors and vice versa. Kinda like a trial run for running this shop, heh. Eventually all the pieces fell into place. And I figured out what I was.”

.:That's really... awful:.

“Yeah, well.” Flatline shrugged.

Mirage sat up. The bed followed. Curiosity emanated from him. .:Did Skywarp know? What the transporter really was?:. 

“I don't know. Skywarp left way before I even thought to ask him that. I figured, in retrospect, maybe he accidentally warped into the furnace room and saw what happened there.”

Mirage shuddered. 

“I'm surprised the dead people thing bothered him, to be honest,” said Flatline. “He's done _some things_ , I can tell you.” His finials went out. “Or maybe he just got pissed cuz the shuttles were all broken and he wanted to go back to wherever the hell he had come from, and he found out the transporter didn't work. Cuz it wasn't a transporter.” He shrugged. He glanced at the read outs for Mirage's vitals. They had stabilized. His body temperature was normal. “You need anything else? I wanna get back to my research. Read more of the case studies my acquaintance sent me.”

.:I'm alright, thank you:.

“I suggest you keep yourself distracted,” said Flatline. He handed Mirage a light monitor. “You can come join me in the other room, if you want, and look up more recipes for Spreem. He's been bugging me for more. Plus, it'll count towards your labor trade.”

Mirage took the light monitor. .:I think... I think that is a good idea:. He slowly swung himself off the bed and followed Flatline out of the patient alcove. 

They sat together for the rest of the day, each doing his own research. Occasionally, Flatline let out an interested “ha!” or “hmm!” and explained to Mirage what he had found. Mirage was quieter with his discoveries. He found several promising recipes and added notes to their margins. There were only a few images, but they did bring the ghost of a smile to his holographic face.

Though the task was relaxing- pleasant even- Mirage's spark still turned with queasy grief. He braced himself against it and pressed on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The work of a “reconstruction mnemospecialist” deserves its own fic someday.


	16. The Med Bed

The silence over the comm gripped Mirage. He sat at the edge of the chair, his wrist pressed to his helm even though that was entirely unnecessary. First Aid still hadn't said anything-

.:I'm... I'm shocked, Mirage. I didn't know about any of that:.

The queasiness in Mirage's spark eased a fraction. He breathed. .:Really?:.

.:Really:. 

Mirage sat back in the chair. He had convinced himself that the entire Autobot army had known. And exploited him. And that any denial of knowing would be further proof of their knowing. But comms had faint traces in their data, little tell-tale marks of emotional output that were incredibly difficult to fake. And First Aid was indeed shocked. 

.:I know Autobots aren't perfect:. continued First Aid. .:I've seen my share of traitors and intra-faction violence, but this... this is _very_ disturbing:. Mirage heard the sound of a note-taking program being activated in the background. .:Mnemosurgery in the time of the Senate is one thing, but done by the _Autobots?_ This is going to give me nightmares for the next week:. There was a pause, then muffled talking. .:Mirage, do you mind if I disclose this to Hot Spot? He's staring at me. I'm sending comms silently but he can tell something's up:.

Mirage thought of both mechs' visored faces. He wondered what little signals First Aid was giving out with his eyes or his field, that Hot Spot could read him so. .:Go ahead. Please tell him to be discreet. I do not wish for this to get out until I'm ready for it to:.

There was more muffled talking, then a third comm barged into the conversation.

.:Mirage?!:. Hot Spot's comm was slightly fuzzy. 

.:Yes?:.

.:Is what First Aid's saying true?!:.

.:Yes:.

Hot Spot swore softly, the static-filled comm cutting in and out. .:I can't believe it:.

.:Yes, well. Believe it:. sent Mirage.

.:I can't:. repeated Hot Spot.

.:I know, right?!:. First Aid's comm overflowed with incredulity.

Mirage was silently grateful he could still count First Aid and Hot Spot among his friends. .:Do either of you know who might have done this? Ordered this?:.

.:Prowl:.

.:Definitely Prowl:.

 _Ah._ .:Yes, I had suspected him, as well. It won't be an easy task, approaching the Autobot councils about him. Do you think it was done with Prime's knowledge?:.

There was a long silence. 

.:I... I don't know. I want to say no, but I also want to say that Autobots don't mutilate brains. Whatever the case, you'll need proof:. sent First Aid.

.: _Lots_ of it:. sent Hot Spot. .:I'm not familiar with the old mnemosurgery networks. They didn't cross with the underground emergency responders groups. But maybe we could dig up some names for you:.

.:Thank you:. Mirage waved a floating light monitor away. .:I have a lead on names. Flatline's putting together all the evidence he's found, including testimony from a mnemospecialist. I will pass the file along to you when it's done. I'm not exactly sure how I want to proceed, yet. Flatline has recommended I focus on recovering from my injury first. Please refrain from digging around too much at the moment. In the event you _must,_ I would prefer to remain anonymous. It's not exactly... a flattering thing:.

.:I understand:. sent First Aid. .:We'll be careful. We'll find what you need:.

.:To be honest:. sent Mirage slowly, .:what I needed most was to hear you say you didn't know about it:.

.: _Aww_ :. sent Hot Spot. .:Glad we could help with that, at least:.

.:Yeah. I can't imagine what you're feeling right now:. sent First Aid. .:I just can't. It's shocking enough hearing about it second-hand:.

.:It's possible I'm not the only one:.

.:Ugh:. sent First Aid. .:That's true!:.

.:Damn, you're right:. Hot Spot's comm beeped. .:Uh, I gotta go. Keep me updated. Good luck, Mirage:. He cut out with a crackle.

.:There he goes:. sent First Aid. .:That bot rattles more in the tires than a fire engine ought to. I should check his sway bars...:.

.:Are you aware of anyone else who's undergone mnemosurgery? From before the war, perhaps?:.

.:Not... not as far as I know:.

.:Damn. I would like to find someone else who has had it. I think it would be nice to hear their story:. Mirage glanced at Flatline, who sat a few chairs away. The medic was studying a light monitor. .:It might make me feel less alone:.

.:Yeah, absolutely. If I find anyone... I'll let you know. Do you have any other updates?:.

.:No. I believe that update is good enough for a lifetime, let alone one night:.

.:Definitely:. First Aid sent. .:Uhh... I have an unrelated question:.

.:Yes?:

.:What model med bed does Flatline have?:.

Mirage glanced at the patient alcove. .:I'm not certain. He will go over its specs with me later today:.

.:Okay, let me know. Cuz none of the models I've seen for sale have the light monitor options. They're all connected to it? How many are there?:.

Mirage looked around the room. .:There's perhaps a dozen. They respond to both spoken commands and gestures and are connected to the database in his shop:.

.:Oh, that's very handy. I definitely want the software for that!:. 

First Aid asked more questions, but Mirage didn't have the specifics. Finally, he wished Mirage good luck and they said their goodbyes.

“I'm confused,” said Flatline, after Mirage indicated his silent comm session was over. “Your field seems... happy? Is that right? Mildly happy?”

.:First Aid didn't know. He was shocked. He _didn't know_ about it:. Little waves of happiness and relief came from Mirage.

“Huh.” Flatline swung his feet up onto the consoles. “I thought you weren't gonna tell him.”

.:It was eating me alive, Flatline. I _had_ to know:.

Flatline nodded. “And?”

.:I feel... I really feel a bit better, knowing that now:. 

“Good.”

.:First Aid had privileged access to my medical file. The fact that he does not know means that it's not in the Autobot databases he has access to:.

“Pff. Do you think the Autobots have a database called _Secret Mnemosurgery_?”

.:No, no... it would definitely have a more innocuous name. What I meant was, the Medical Division and Spec Ops were closely linked, oftentimes with overlapping access to databases for various reasons. If First Aid didn't know, or doesn't have access to the database where the information is stored, than it's probably the subject of a coverup and not widely known.:.

“...I thought that'd be obvious. It's _mnemosurgery_. Did you think every Autobot knew about it?”

Annoyance ran through Mirage's field. .:I didn't know for sure! It's a startling thing to be told. It takes time to internalize. I needed reassurance. But perhaps...:. Mirage touched the Autobot badge on his chest. .: _Perhaps_ I can still move forward wearing this:.

“Hrmm.” Flatline's finials betrayed his desire to say more, but he refrained. 

.:I guess we'll see. I wish there was someone else I could talk to about this. Another victim. Someone who understands what it's like to be in my position:.

“I'm sure you'll find someone eventually. The only silver lining to this whole thing is that you're probably not alone.” Flatline scratched his chest. “Have you given any more thought to the gamma-cybrobuteric acid issue?”

.:Yes. Creating whatever I want has been a part of my life for millions and millions of years. I think it's part of that which makes me, _me_. Though the nightmares and hallucinations are awful, I cannot imagine a life without the creativity. Surely there is a way to ameliorate the harmful effects without losing that side of me? Surely it's not strictly an either/or situation?:.

“Hmm. Stability can only be _guaranteed_ with a production-halting intervention of some kind.” 

Mirage projected an unhappy expression.

“Let's see how the processor program goes. Maybe it'll clean up the damage enough to allow for a more flexible solution. Speaking of which, I wanna go over it one last time with my acquaintance. Make triple sure the bed's algorithms are compatible with it. Why don't you go labor trade with Spreem til later?”

.:Alright:.

~~

.:Spreem, please! A measure of order!:.

Mirage trailed behind the stout bot, picking up the dirty spoons and bowls he left in his wake. Spreem had no ability to plan. There was no sensible work flow in the kitchen- Spreem bounced between three different recipes. Mirage could hardly keep up with the _mise en place_ and clearing the used dishes. Spreem definitely provided the distraction Flatline had suggested.

Flashflux had dragged a long table into the kitchen and Solarray sat at it watching the chaos with a bright visor. Chunks of concrete, broken glass, and shards of flooring were arranged by color in little piles before her. Her biolights blinked lazily at her extremities and more quickly at her core- one of the Cybertronian signals for anxiety. But, given her calm demeanor, Mirage figured it was Camien for “general interest.”

.:Do you see this, Solarray? This is madness. Spreem is an avatar of disorder:. Mirage weighed out a batch of Quickmix's artificial crystals and set them into a small dish. .:These go into the flourette magentiques:.

“Thanks!” Spreem's visor bubbled and he tossed a dirty spatula at the sink. It missed, hit the wall, and stuck.

Solarray laughed. 

Mirage quite liked her. She had a lovely voice and an elegant way about her. The blue panels on her limbs and back somehow stayed shiny and clean despite the fact that her conjunx was ripping the dining room apart. Every once in a while Flashflux would push through the medical tarps hung at the doorway and drop another pile of debris on the table. Solarray picked through it with slender yellow fingers, feeling each piece's weight and judging its shape and color.

Mirage at last corralled the majority of the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, focused Spreem's attention on _one_ recipe, and then dramatically fell into the seat across from Solarray. .:He shall be the _death_ of me:.

Solarray's field rippled with amusement. “I like Spreem. He's willing to give me work. And he's such a cheerful fellow!”

Spreem, ignoring the mortar and pestle Mirage had set out for him, smashed a crystal with his huge hand. “WOO!” Crystal shards flew through the air.

.:Yes:. sent Mirage, brushing sparkling dust from his side. .:And how is _your_ project going?:.

Solarray considered the piles before her. “It is going well, considering the limitations of the media.” She picked up a chunk of cement. “It is good to make beautiful things from broken things.”

.:...yes:. Mirage sat up straighter. 

“I am hoping to convince Spreem to reopen the establishment as a Cybertronian-Camien fusion restaurant. He'll get many customers in this neighborhood.”

“I'm convinced!”

“Wonderful!” Solarray waited until Spreem's back was turned, then she leaned forward. She placed her hand over Mirage's. “I'm so sorry,” she said quietly.

A flicker of surprise went through Mirage's field. .:Pardon?:.

Solarray squeezed his hand. Her blue panels rustled in a wave across her body. “I hope you feel better.”

.:What?:. 

Solarray tilted her head. “Your lights,” she said, pointing to the biolights in Mirage's shoulders and wheels. “They speak of pain. It's unusual to see such open expression among new friends.”

.:I- uh:. Mirage ran through the sentence a few times, looking down at the biolights in his torso. .:Oh! I see. I am not displaying pain. I have noticed that the biolight language between our peoples is different:.

“Oh. That _is_ a relief, then.” Solarray peered at him, sticking her face uncomfortably close to one of his wheels. She touched his biolight there. “What are they saying?”

.:Uh... mild discomfort, at the moment:.

“Hmm.” Solarray sat back again, one of her blue panels casually leaning against his arm. Mirage had no idea what level of friendship she expected they had. He tried to present a relaxed, friendly field. “Smiles ought to be the same, yes?”

.:Yes:. Mirage projected one.

“Why...” Solarray leaned forward again, more conspiratorially this time. “Please forgive the intrusive question, but why do your lips not move with your words? Why don't you speak?”

Mirage looked away. He focused on the little pile of broken glass. .:I was injured. This is not a real face. It is a hologram:.

“Oh! That's amazing.” Solarray touched his chin. “It feels so strange!”

Mirage pulled away from her. .:I must protest:. he sent hastily. .:Along with biolights, physical proximity here on Cybertron has a different meaning. You're too close to me. Respectfully, I must ask for some distance:.

Solarray's biolights blinked with joy as her field expressed horror. “I apologize! I did not know!”

.:It's alright:. Mirage settled back in his seat. .:It is better you learn that from me than some brute:.

“I see.” Solarray's blue panels drooped. “What is permitted?”

.:Between acquaintances, as you say, 'new friends,' perhaps a tap on the shoulder to get attention. The rest should be saved for when you've been known longer:.

“Oh. That seems so cold.” Solarray flexed her long fingers. “Even now I feel that I have hurt you and I wish to embrace you and comfort you.” 

.:It is not necessary. Your words and your field are enough:.

Her visor dimmed with doubt. 

.:But perhaps... as this will be a place of fusion between our cultures, we can compromise:. Mirage shifted closer so more of her blue panels leaned against his arm. They fluttered against his plating. .:Please, tell me what you're working on:.

Solarray's biolights perked up. “On Caminus I was a traveling mosaicist.” She plucked a few scraps from her piles and fit them together expertly into the shape of a hammer. “I trained with a Master in the arts and we journeyed around the world doing our craft. She taught me all she knew, but it was in the old way. Not many places want mosaics done in the style I do them.”

.:Alas:.

“It is how I met Flashflux. I was doing a mosaic on the wall of the theatre where she worked. She must've been watching me work for quite a while, because I noticed her presence. She always said hello, asked me how progress was going.” Her blue panels lifted slightly and her field exuded happiness. “After I finished the mosaic she asked me to join her for a meal. We've been together ever since.”

Mirage projected a smile. .:A lovely story:.

“Thank you. What's yours?”

Mirage forced himself not to project a frown. .:I suppose... one could say, I'm still trying to figure that out:.

“I wish you great luck,” said Solarray. She spoke a few words in Camien. 

.:Er... I don't know Camien, I'm afraid. I think I heard 'you' in there...:.

“I wished you well, putting the pieces together.”

.:Thank you:. Mirage shifted in his seat. .:What shape will the mosaic be in, once completed?:.

“A hammer. With an assortment of foods arranged around it.”

.:Why a hammer? Spreem isn't a blacksmith. He is a cook. Perhaps a kitchen utensil?:.

“Hmm.” Solarray looked over the piles again. “Hammers are traditional. On Caminus, I mean. But I see... we're not there, anymore, are we now...” She grabbed a handful of glass shards and arranged them into a diamond. 

.:You've made such a beautiful image from refuse! That sparkles just like Spreem's gem-shaped treats:.

“Thank you!” 

A thought struck Mirage. .:Do you have interesting dreams?:.

“Sometimes,” said Solarray. “Not as many as Flashflux. Why?”

.:Apparently it is rare for Cybertronians to dream:. Mirage folded his hands in his lap. .:I experience dreams, but it is due to a... a sickness. I have an opportunity to cure it. But I don't know what that will do to my abilities:.

“Do you create? Are you an artist?”

Mirage projected a smile. .:Of a sort:. With a wave of his hand, a pyramid appeared, its sides covered in old script lit up from within, hovering against a starry background. .:I saw this in a dream this morning. What is it? I don't know. But it is a thing of beauty my mind has conjured:.

“Oh!” Solarray plucked the pyramid from its stars. “It feels like your face.”

.:They are the same technology:.

“It looks so real,” she said, tilting it back and forth. 

.:That's the idea:.

“It is an object of great importance,” said Solarray firmly. She placed it back into the stars. “I should think it's important, not to lose your ability to create.”

Mirage nodded and let the starry hologram fade.

“Mirage!” Spreem's visor bubbled happily as he approached. “Can you eat yet?”

.:No. Not yet:.

“Aww. Soon?”

.:Yes:.

“Great!” Spreem clapped Mirage on the shoulder so hard his face glitched. “Flatline will fix you up good! Did you know he fixed me?”

Mirage winced and rubbed his shoulder. .:Please, don't hit me so hard, Spreem. I am very delicate:. He gave Solarray a holo wink. Confusion flowed through her field.

“Oh, sorry,” said Spreem. He very gently tapped Mirage with a spoon. “Tell Flatline to hurry up. You've been around for a while! When he fixed me it didn't take that long. Do you get to sleep on the fancy bed?”

.:Yes:.

“I love that thing! Did you know I was the first mech to try it out?”

.:I didn't know that:.

“It was so cool! The only bed that didn't hurt my back cuz of my legs.” Spreem lifted a stumpy leg. Treads ran down and around the bottom of his foot. The way his leg was constructed, there was no position he could have lain in comfortably on a regular berth. 

.:What did Flatline do for you?:.

“My big arm got half blown off in my squad's last battle, right before Megatron surrendered. The medics on my ship were gonna replace it but I didn't want same-sized arms. It wouldn't feel right. We were headed back to Cybertron and when we got here, I found Flatline and he saved it.” Spreem flexed his huge arm. “I'm really glad. I really didn't wanna lose the big one.” 

Mirage, who had prided himself on his symmetry all his life, wasn't sure how to respond. .:Er... well, I'm glad Flatline was able to help you:. He peered at Spreem's shoulder. .:I don't see a single repair seam:.

“Flatline's work is excellent,” said Solarray.

“Yeah!”

.:Indeed:.

~~

Flatline pulled up the med bed's specs- so extensive they covered _all_ of the floating light monitors- and slowly went through its many systems. He moved the mobile panels back to reveal the skeleton underneath, a colorful patchwork of small reservoirs containing all the basic fluids, metals, and materials one could think of occurring in a Cybertronian. The reservoirs were fitted around each other in tight patterns, and themselves were overlaid by a complicated system of tubes and wires. Multiple backup, emergency, and battery systems were scattered around, so that if one part of the bed was damaged it could continue its work. Mirage listened patiently, nodding and comm-ing approval at the appropriate times.

“Aaaand that's about it,” said Flatline, dismantling the intricate wire hook-up he'd demonstrated. “Well, that's the intro course. The intermediate course might take a while longer. But we'll save that in case you feel like actually pursuing a medical career, heh. Any questions?”

.:None specific to the procedure. Though, would you send the specs along to First Aid? He would like to purchase a bed like this in the future:.

“Hmm.” Flatline tapped his mask. “I think he will be disappointed by what the manufacturers offer. This bed has been... highly modified with external software.”

.:Oh. Well, let him know the source for that, too. I'm sure if he has enough shanix for one of these beds, he'll pay for the software, as well:.

Flatline's finials swung back in a complex pattern. 

.:...it's not legal software, is it?:.

“Mmm...” Flatline squinted. “Not... exactly.”

.:Oh. Fantastic:. Mirage stepped away from the bed. .:What's it been doing to me all this time, Flatline?:.

“Nothing, nothing. It has no ability to interfere with patients. Not like anything _your_ processor could dream up, anyway.”

.:The sparkbeat-:.

“-is the most invasive thing it can do to you. For however _invasive_ that is.” Flatline summoned the monitors. “The orphaned software primarily works in planning and organizational capacities. It takes a lot of brain power to sort and update and coordinate the database, the bed, the monitors, _and_ the rest of the shop simultaneously, while also taking orders live.”

Mirage pulled his field in and suppressed a shudder. Orphaned software was software ripped right out of the processor, leaving the victim a zombie-like remnant. Like mnemosurgery, it was highly, highly cruel and illegal. Unlike mnemosurgery, it was done quickly and messily and with no care as to the mech left behind. Remnants who didn't die immediately usually didn't last long. .:Orphaned software...:.

“Yes.”

.: _Why_ do you have _orphaned software?_ Did you get it as payment for something? In a trade?:.

“No,” said Flatline. “I'm... not certain I would take that as payment. No, this was a mistake. A mistake I made.”

.:A patient?!:.

“Yes.”

.:Where is the shell now? The remnant?:.

“He's _not_ a shell,” snapped Flatline. “And he's well taken care of.” 

Mirage stared at him for a very long time. .:Spreem told me something interesting today:. Flatline's finials snapped back. .:He was your first patient to use the med bed:.

“He was, yes.”

.:And you fixed his arm?:.

“Yes.”

Mirage watched his finials closely. 

“Amazing how I can feel your stare even through that blank, hollow face.”

.:I am about to entrust this bed with my life functions. And it is running _orphaned software_ :. 

“That software is what's going to allow the bed to _handle_ the processor procedure we're going to do for you.” Flatline waved his arms at the floating light monitors. “It's what makes this clinic run smoothly.”

Distaste crept through Mirage's field. 

“The orphaning event was an accident. But the software's in the bed permanently so it might as well be put to good use. It's used for healing now, which is better than anything it had been used for previously.” Flatline pointed to the corpse library door. “It's like all the things in there, Mirage.”

.:And the remnant-:.

“Is _fine_. He's the happiest guy I know.”

Spreem's bubbly visor and infinitely cheerful demeanor came to Mirage's mind immediately. And his total inability to plan. And the fact that Flatline had bought everything in his kitchen for him and received nothing of value in return.

.: _Primus_ :. Mirage backed away from the wavering wires and cables of the med bed. .: _That's_ why you support him. Take ovens as payment and give them to him:.

After a long moment, Flatline nodded.

.:Is he... is he _in_ there? Can he understand us?:.

“No.” Flatline grabbed a light monitor and tapped it. “Like I said, it's not sentient.” He handed the monitor to Mirage. “That's it. That's the code.”

Mirage watched the code stream down the light monitor. It was entirely unfamiliar to him. .:I've never seen someone's _brain code_ before:.

“I have. If you do enough scans on someone's processor you can reconstruct little bits of it by manipulating the data. That's part of how my mnemospecialist friend does his work. But, I'm more of a body guy. I'm not really into that kind of thing.” Flatline took the monitor back and flicked it. Its screen blanked out to a serene greenish blue. 

.:What _happened?_ :.

Flatline sighed. “Has Spreem told you about his time in the war?”

.:Yes. There was... some kind of outpost infiltration operation with “miraculously almost no loss of Autobot life,” I believe is how he put it. Then he went to a fleshling world:.

“Yeah. There was nothing miraculous about that infiltration. Omega Spreem was a galley mech who could do two things brilliantly: cook and strategize. He was never able to pass the tests to ascend in rank, but he could make a battle plan better than anyone in his entire sector of the galaxy. He said his superiors used to ask him about optimized drop off locations while he scrubbed the floors.”

Surprise flashed through Mirage's field. .:He was an _Omega?_ :. 

“Yeah. Not in the literal sense. Well, sort of. He was part of an experimental group of MTOs constructed from some of the Titan's original metal.” Flatline touched a monitor and the hologram of a spectrograph appeared. “Pretty neat. Unique signature. Unrelated to any others I've found. Kinda like how mine is.”

.:Oh:. Mirage put his hand over his spark. .:Poor Spreem! To be treated so badly and then lose the most important part of himself!:.

“ _Half_ of the most important part. Spreem didn't come to me with a broken arm. He'd gotten his head nearly blown off in battle. I hooked him up to the bed- it was the same day I had gotten it. I hadn't read through all the manuals yet. I... I didn't know exactly what I was doing. But he was critically wounded and the hospital was full so they'd sent him to me. I did the best I could, but I used to be a little more... careless. That's why I research the hell out of everything now.”

Mirage thought back to all the times he had seen the medic pouring over light monitors. He nodded.

“To make a very long story short, the bed hadn't been properly calibrated and it had _no_ data to refer to regarding Spreem's unique processor and spark type. It mistook his brilliant strategizing mod for a virus and stripped it out of him. As far as I can tell, the power of the code was decreased by at least 75% by the orphaning process, but it was still functional enough to embed itself into the bed before being wiped out. It's not sentient. It just... knows how to plan. Really, really well.”

.:That's horrifying:.

Flatline nodded. “Spreem's remnant – I hate that term – remained vibrant and I got him back to stability. The stripping procedure caused, predictably, memory loss. And... well, there's a reason I've been saying you're not the _worst_ case of processor damage I've ever seen. But he was so _cheerful_. He was left with a deep desire to cook, even though he had forgotten how to. He helps me every day. So, I take care of him.” Flatline's finials swung back slowly. “I think that's only fair.”

Mirage nodded. .:I did wonder why you funded his dreams with seemingly little in return. You are _very_ keen on equal resource swapping:.

“I think I have the unequal benefit, unfortunately.” Flatline made a fist. “I swore from that day on no mech would ever walk out of here worse than they came in.”

.:Hrmm. I do believe you:. Mirage looked at the med bed in a new light. He eyed Flatline. .:Next are you going to tell me Quickmix is the fourteenth Prime?:.

“Hah! Nah. He's just really good at what he does.” A finial flicked back thoughtfully. “As far as _I_ know...”

.:How do you know for _certain_ the bed and your acquaintance's program won't do the same thing to me?:. Mirage gripped his helm. .:Though I'm pretty sure orphaning any part of _me_ would destroy what use you get from the bed. And my remnant would invisibly wander Iacon, projecting horrors at all who came too close:.

“Heh. Dark humor, good survival instinct.” Flatline gave him a thumb's up. “The circumstances that caused Spreem's problem are not replicable. Similar to your unique pattern of processor damage and the events that created it. And my acquaintance and I each ran the program through a simulation of your processor one thousand and twenty-four times. There were no negative consequences.”

.:Hmm... You know, I was going to say that I'm putting my life into your hands. But I suppose it's been like that the entire time I've been here:.

Flatline shrugged. “Do you still want to do the procedure?”

Dozens of thoughts and images poured through Mirage's processor: the dreams and memories he had experienced, the friends and enemies and battles and adventures... and the empty spaces between them.

.:Yes:. 

“Good. Go take a shower.”

.:Excuse me? Am I offensive to you?:.

“No, but you'll feel better when you wake up if you're as clean as possible now.”

.:Oh:. Mirage retreated to the washroom.

Flatline messaged Spreem and Quickmix, warning them that there was a delicate procedure taking place and visits would have to wait (save the next day's breakfast drop off). He double-checked that his and Mirage's signatures were loaded into the shop's sensors, then dialed them up as high as they could go. Flatline sterilized all of the contact points the bed would have with his patient. He washed its panels down, sprayed the floor, even wiped the undersides of the floating light monitors. By the time Mirage returned, everything was sparkling clean. “You ready? You can turn your face off.”

Mirage's biolights flickered as he did so. .:I will admit, I am nervous:.

“That's okay, perfectly normal. Get on the bed when you're ready.” Flatline washed his hands and then gathered the floating monitors together.

Mirage gracefully pulled himself onto the bed, as he had so many times before. Its panels rose to support him. He felt like he was floating over a precipice, a great, vast unknown. He tried to sense anything in the bed of Spreem, but it was its usual self- supportive, responsive, fluidly moving.

.:I am comfortable:.

“Good.” Flatline arranged the light monitors and loaded the program. He hardwired some of the monitors to the bed. He plugged lines and tubes into Mirage, explaining each one as he went. After the last one was placed, he stepped into Mirage's field of view. “I'll dim the lights now. Any lingering questions?”

.:Will it... will it be alright?:.

“It'll be alright,” said Flatline firmly. “I'll be here a while, making sure everything's running smoothly. Once you've entered the long, stable phase, I'll be upstairs. I'll be very close.”

.:Okay. I am... I am _quite_ nervous:. 

“I can feel it.” 

.:Not just the orphaned thing... the _everything_ :.

Flatline touched the back of Mirage's hand gently with one finger. “It will be okay.”

Mirage flickered his face on for a moment. It smiled, then disappeared.

“See you soon,” said Flatline. He tapped the main light monitor and it displayed a countdown. The med bed activated and hummed very quietly.

Mirage's biolights dimmed as the program began. His gold eyes faded until his helm was dark.

Flatline watched the monitors. The program proceeded properly. He remained in the patient alcove for a few hours, busying himself with research. At nightfall, the quiet stillness of the shop was broken only by the sparkpulse monitor, which displayed a steady beat. Flatline double-checked that the program was still running correctly, then left the patient alcove. He triple-checked the shop's sensors, checked the corpse library door for the hell of it, and locked the front door. Everything was in place. The shop was peaceful in the warm, semi-darkness. Flatline headed upstairs.

He went through his usual routine, stretching, oiling his joints and hands. He flicked a brief finial-smile at himself in the vanity mirror and crawled into bed. Within minutes, he was asleep.

~~

 _ **Alert:** proximity sensor activated!_

Flatline twitched in his sleep. One finial slowly went back as he processed the warning. _Probably just some junkie going through the garbage._ He dismissed the alert.

_**Alert:** interior compromised!!_

_This_ warning was directly connected to an instaswitch in his processor that flooded his lines with enhanced energon. Flatline jolted upright, rousing routines operating at four times usual speed. He catapulted from the berth and ran down the stairs, missiles rising and priming.

He activated the low lights in the shop and did a quick scan. Nothing was disturbed- both the entry door and the corpse library door were intact. All cabinet contents were in place. But something had tripped the sensors. It couldn't be Mirage- he was immobile and the sensors had been tuned to accept his signature. 

Could the shop's sensors be malfunctioning? They never had, before...

The heavy curtain to the patient alcove was slightly wrinkled. Flatline narrowed his eyes and strode toward it. He yanked it aside, threw his shoulders back, flashed his biolights, and raised his missiles to the highest they'd go before firing. Not that he would fire in his own shop, that was madness. But he intended to scare off any intruder quickly.

The monitors floated over Mirage, emitting dim light. And there, silhouetted against them, was a figure. It was bent over Mirage, extending an arm, blocking his muted biolights. 

“Back up! Back away from the medical bed!” Flatline's missiles whirred.

The figure froze.

Flatline activated the overhead lights.

The figure whipped towards him, a flurry of black, purple, wings, and _rage_. 

Skywarp.


	17. Memoryscape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At some point during this fic I wanted to mention two Mirage/Seekers fics that helped inspire me to get an account here and start writing again. This chapter seemed like the right place. Please note, both these fics are rated E: “Harmony, Not Exactly” by Jade_Waters and “Opening Move” by Merrypaws. If you enjoy the pairing(s), please check those fics out and give the authors a little love :)

Mirage stood in a vast, dark space. The air was comfortable and clean, lit only by his own biolights. “Hello?” 

No response. His voice didn't even echo. He had expected an echo.

Then realization kicked in. “Oh!” He touched his throat. “My voice!” He touched his cheeks. “My face! I am whole!” He smiled and grimaced and scrunched up his nose, laughing to himself at how natural and good it felt. For a moment he was lost in the joy of it. Then the darkness pressed in again and he went silent.

Mirage projected a lantern in hard light. 

Nothing.

He furrowed his optical arches and stepped forward with a flourish, bidding the hard light to obey him as it had countless times in the past. Fireworks should have sprung from his fingertips.

But there was nothing.

He frowned. Mirage sent out an intricate statue of his favorite playwright, a piece of art he had visited many times in person and whose details he had dedicated to memory. Quill's frame, cast in bronze with oxidized copper at the eyes and highlights of gold, in the serious, static pose of a Grand Scholar of ancient Cybertron. His robes flowed around him, his pen held somberly, his carved biolights filled with the sculptor's own energon, casting a reddish glow- 

Nothing appeared.

At that, Mirage went invisible and held very still. He listened carefully to his environment. He couldn't hear anything save a distant hum. It sounded like someone's processor under pressure- when a mech was under so much stress, you could _hear_ them thinking, even from the outside of their helm...

Mirage wasn't getting that prickly feeling he got when he found himself in a bad situation. It _felt_ safe... the area, vast and dark as it was, didn't _feel_ dangerous.

“What is the purpose of this place?” he asked, enunciating each word clearly.

No answer.

With a huff, he strode forward and nearly jumped out of his frame at the sight of his own arms swinging. He gaped at his hand, turning it this way and that, willing it invisible like he had always done.

Still, it remained.

“What is this place, where I can neither do holo nor hide?!” Before he could ponder it further, the humming grew louder. It shook his plating, ran up his helm, and thrummed through his audials.

A light appeared in the distance. He snapped to attention. It expanded along gridlines, racing towards him, buildings and towers springing up in its wake. Mirage's eyes widened as he took in their details- crowded skyscrapers towering on his left, the Main glistening behind its pearlescent force field in the distance. This was his city. His city! He hadn't seen these buildings in millions of years! How _beautiful_ they were. 

The street bustled beside him. The smell of delicious food filled the air. His tanks sent hungry pings to his processor. The sky above was full of taxis and delivery mechs. People walked and drove and cycled all around him, chatting in groups or yelling on their various communication devices.

Someone pushed past Mirage and muttered about gaping tourists. “Oh, excuse _me,_ ” said Mirage. He stepped closer to the menu he had been reading. It was plastered to the window of Mirage's favorite Vosnian take out place. The owner inside waved. Mirage waved back. He admired the fancy lettering on the menu, sounding out the words slowly. He still hadn't taken the time to properly learn the script- Vos's spoken language was the same that they used here, but was written in a different alphabet. Learning to read Vosnian was on his list of things to do this decade. 

His HUD pinged with an alarm, coded, as it was work-related: _15:00 M, 364.112, 178.994.72._

He was going to be late for the consultation with his new client at 15:00! “Oh, I cannot linger!” Mirage ignored the pings from his empty tanks, waved apologetically to the owner, and set off down the street.

This client had the potential to be _very_ lucrative indeed. Mirage had done a job last week for this mech's scout and now he was meeting the head honcho himself. 

Mirage turned down the next avenue and his HUD pinged with a reminder. _Note: contact Beds And Berths for replacement berth; size 24b, delivery on date 204 or 205 (Skywarp will be home to greet delivery mechs)_

_Slag,_ thought Mirage. _I forgot about that. Oh, but I can do this while on my way! It shouldn't take long._ The new bed was his gift to Skywarp. The poor mech had suffered horribly during his frame change. Now he was feeling better and the wing slits in their old bed no longer served a purpose. Not to mention how broken the thing was, as Thundercracker had stayed with them for his recovery, too. A new bed would be much more comfortable. 

Mirage pulled his shortwave communicator from subspace. Its gold contacts flashed in a pleasing way as he dialed. Mirage held the device to his audial and strode more quickly down the street.

“Thank you for contacting Beds And Berths! All of our customer service drones are currently in use. Please hold. You are number two in line.” Tinny holding music commenced.

Mirage grumbled, eyeing the street signs and pushing through a crowd of mini bots.

His HUD pinged with yet another reminder. _Note: contact Discreet Insulators- neighbors complaining about strong fields coming from the bedroom_

“Oh, dammit,” Mirage muttered. He had forgotten about that. The new neighbors were apparently very sensitive to fields and could feel Skywarp's through the wall. It had been an embarrassing hallway encounter, learning about that one... apparently the apartment building's walls insulated sound well, but field energy, nope.

“Thank you for holding! A Beds And Berths service drone will be with you shortly.”

Mirage grumbled and ducked down an alley. He glanced around, then went invisible.

_“Frag.”_

The soft curse had _just_ registered in his audials. Mirage froze. Someone was behind him. He turned at the waist, a limited motion for his frame, but one that was silent. He squinted. 

There, a few dozen paces away, a mech in a light-bending cloak clung to the wall. His visor was turned down low, but not off. Its gleam interfered with the light-bending properties of his hood, announcing his position with tell-tale blue static. The hood poked up over two audial horns.

Mirage frowned. “Jazz.”

The figure startled. “Damn! How'd you know?” Jazz pulled the hood back. It spat static as it folded over itself around his neck. His body remained mostly cloaked, his head comically visible.

“I won't tell you, as it will just make you more irritating to suss out.”

Jazz laughed. “We can't all be _perfect_ like you, Mirage. Some of us have to make do with this buggy new tech.” He jumped down from the wall and landed silently. “Well? You gonna go visible, too?”

Mirage moved until his back was against the wall, then returned to visibility. Jazz's gaze snapped over to him, a slight burst of discontent coming through his visor. 

“I am in the middle of a private call,” said Mirage. He pressed the shortwave communicator harder against his audial, hoping Jazz couldn't hear Beds And Berths' holding music.

“I can wait.”

Mirage shot him a glare just as a customer service drone finally picked up.

“Thank you for calling Beds And Berths! How may I assist you today?”

“Hello,” said Mirage tensely. “I need to place an order for delivery.”

“Proceed.”

“I am _very rudely_ being eavesdropped on right now,” continued Mirage. Jazz grinned. “Delivery location will be transmitted to you separately at the conclusion of this conversation, once you have given me a confirmation number.”

The drone made strained, clunking sounds. “Confirmed,” it said after a long pause. “Discreet mode enabled. You may make your product selection using descriptions or product number.”

_Damn,_ thought Mirage. _I should've noted the product number._ He lowered his voice. “Berth 24b, double-weight capacity bed frame with extra energy absorption layer and dispersal sheets.”

Jazz whistled.

The customer service drone whirred as it processed the information. “Confirmed. Order number will be electronically transferred to the account associated with this private line. Delivery dates will be established once payment is complete.”

“Thank you,” said Mirage.

“Do you require any further assistance today?”

“No,” said Mirage.

“Thank you for calling Beds And Berths, your number one store for fast and courteous-”

Mirage terminated the call.

“That's a big bed,” said Jazz, visor flashing.

“I like my space,” said Mirage, stowing his shortwave communicator away. “Have you ever had a 24b berth to yourself? It is _luxurious_.” Mirage's processor raced. Jazz was a talker. He knew if he dawdled and Jazz got him talking, Jazz could extrapolate all kinds of things just by watching his eyes.

Jazz worked with Prowl, who worked for Optimus Prime, who had been requesting Mirage's services at an ever-increasing frequency. Mirage had been very careful to use non-sentient assistants when communicating with his clients. He was keen on keeping his private life private.

And while he had worked with Jazz a few times already, and generally found the mech to be pleasant company, he was not amused by this display of inept tailing. It was an unspoken courtesy, in their field, that one agent didn't tail another.

“It _does_ sound luxurious,” said Jazz. He threw the cloak over his shoulders with a flourish, rendering the rest of his body visible.

“I have important business that I do not wish to be late for,” said Mirage. The subtext being, _back off, I have a client to meet with and you're not invited._

“Aww, you know how it is,” said Jazz, stepping casually towards him. He kept his body language and field light, friendly. “Orion just _loves_ you.”

Mirage pulled his field in, surprised that Jazz had dropped one of his boss's pseudonyms in this alley. “He knows the proper way to contact me. It doesn't include using you as a messenger mech. How _do_ you feel about being used that way?”

Jazz chuckled. “I don't mind.” He stepped closer. “'sides, I had my own reasons for doing this in person.”

Mirage raised an orbital arch at him.

Jazz stepped closer and pulled his field in. “How'd you like me to help you break that new bed in?”

Mirage's jaw dropped. He was about to accost the other mech, when he took a moment to study his body language. Jazz's field was in, but inexpertly, and Mirage could feel an absolute lack of intimate interest. And though Jazz was smiling, his sensual biolight display was _definitely_ forced.

Mirage shook his finger at Jazz. “I will give you one piece of important feedback. For free, even. Your footsteps are silent, but the rest of you is not.”

“Is that a no?”

Mirage glared.

Jazz made a face. Then he considered Mirage's words. “Legit,” he said. “Prowl keeps tellin' me just about the same thing.”

Mirage shook his head. “You've dropped the names of your client and your coworker. Your light-bending cloak has shoddy seams and spits static at the edges. And seduction is the oldest trick in the book.”

“Heh... yeah.”

Mirage glanced up and down the alley. “And I don't think this is a distraction. Someone would've swooped in by now.”

“Yup,” said Jazz. He pinched the edge of his cloak between his fingers, studying it.

“What do you want, Jazz?” Mirage checked his chronometer. Damn, he'd really have to hustle to get to the meeting point on time, now. He considered sending Prowl an invoice for an impromptu teaching lesson. Not to mention a scathing note detailing Jazz's lack of professionalism. He was surprised, really. Jazz had been much more competent in the past.

“We all wanna get to know you better,” said Jazz convivially. His field flowed out again at a polite intensity. 

“You know that's not how things are done.” 

“Yeah, but...” Jazz shrugged. “We kinda wanted to bring you into the fold, ya know? You ever get tired of freelancing?”

_Yes,_ thought Mirage. _It's exhausting. Keeping up with clients, parceling out time efficiently, tracking payments and ditching communication drones when they're compromised. Not to mention the stress of keeping my private life secure. Skywarp and I have never walked into our apartment together. He always warps directly in from a distance. And everywhere we go together, we wear disguises._ “No,” Mirage said. “I love it.”

Jazz laughed. “Here's a tip for _you._ Lie faster. It's more convincing without the big pause.”

Mirage turned away from him. “If a client wants me, he knows how to reach me.”

“Nice talking to you!” Jazz called. “Looking forward to meeting your big boyfriend someday. 24b or not, no freelancing lightweight like you would waste the money on a double-weight capacity bed frame.”

Mirage bristled. Jazz had done it, weaseled some tiny tidbit of personal info out of some stupid part of their conversation. Mirage swung around to confront him. He was greeted by an empty alley.

As he scowled at the walls, the humming sound resumed, and he turned around again, only to run right into Sheen.

She glared at him.

Dear one grimaced beneath his veil. He backed away, arms up in a placating position. The great hall towered around them, lined with clean banners and simple ribbons. It smelled like fresh paint. 

She straightened her robes. “This way,” she snapped and turned, her wings proudly bobbing high. Dear one followed her to the transport. Emīror and the acolytes were already inside. 

Emīror smiled as dear one took his seat beside the High Priest. “Your first Oblectamentum,” he said. “Are you excited?”

Dear one nodded. The sacred clothing he wore was heavier than his usual fare, though he quite liked the thick, silver threading in his veil. It was an intricate design.

Sheen took her seat, for the first time, among the acolytes. She glared at dear one, her eyes flashing.

“Remember what Sheen has taught you. You mustn't make any mistakes.”

Dear one nodded.

His education with Sheen had been largely in the art of angry silence. When he had related such to the High Priest, Sheen was harshly reprimanded. From then on out, she gave fierce lectures, using mostly gestures and diagrams. She, too, was unaccustomed to speaking.

Dear one fidgeted in his seat, rubbing his hands along his smooth, polysilk robes until the High Priest gave him a sharp look. He contented himself with looking out the window at the city, his first excursion. The city was a confusing blur of shapes that sped by. Dear one guessed at which ones were buildings and which were mechs.

When they arrived at their destination, the High Priest exited first, followed by dear one, then Sheen and her acolytes. They were greeted warmly at the door of the planetarium by a squat mech in a maroon robe.

“ _So_ pleased to see you again, blessed one,” he said, bowing to Sheen.

Sheen blinked back tears as the High Priest gently pushed her aside. “We have a new Vessel. More _perfect,_ more beautiful! His clarity is a divine miracle. Primus speaks through him like song through crystal.”

“Wonderful!” said the mech, his gaze settling on dear one. Dear one looked away, shy. “He is _lovely._ ”

“Indeed,” said Emīror. “But first, shall we enjoy one of your delightful shows?”

“Of course!” The mech beaconed them inside.

They were ushered to comfortable chairs inside a circular room. As dear one reclined, he realized the ceiling above him was a dome, its circumference painted with portraits of the Primes. The room darkened. Holy script appeared, written in light on the dome, big enough that dear one could read it even from this distance.

“In the beginning, there was Primus...” A pleasant voice narrated the creation stories, accompanied by projected movies and scenes. Dear one gasped at the exciting parts, gripped the arms of his chair during the battles, and nearly cried out in shock at the infamous betrayal. Another sharp glance from Emīror reminded him that he was to be seen, not heard, and he composed himself.

Once the creation stories had concluded, a different voice flowed through the planetarium. “Behold, the glory of Primus, for after the sunrise comes the sunset...”

Dear one wiggled in anticipation. He had done the rites for sunrise and sunset for a dozen-dozen years, but had not yet seen one. The dome swirled at one side with colors- red, orange, and yellow, which blossomed into a white orb so bright he could not look directly at it. The orb traversed the blue dome and set again on the opposite side in a fiery clash of pinks and purples. 

“And our night sky, a wondrous splendor!” 

The dome plunged into a deep purple-black. Then, one by one, scattered silver dots of light appeared. They rotated slowly in the darkness, leaving faint trails in their wake.

Just as dear one found himself drowsy with their soothing movements, their number increased. New stars appeared, faster and faster, all across the dome. Frothing green and purple nebulae burst to life, their gaseous tendrils overlapping and entwining. Within their coils were nestled even _more_ stars. The scene spun and dear one felt he was thrust bodily into the vision on the dome. The stars brightened and dimmed all around him. The temple felt far, far away. Some stars exploded in rainbow halos, some deepened to red and went dark. He reached out to them, but no matter how hard he strained, he could not touch them.

Dear one felt something in his spark move as he took in the beauty of the sky. He was breathless at the sight of it. The stars! The nebulae! They were all so _beautiful_. How great Primus was! How mighty His hand, to have built heavens such as these! Dear one's spark swelled with pride, that he was His Vessel. Before he could stop them, tears ran down his cheeks and stained his veil.

Oh, how he _adored_ the sky!

As dear one wept, overwhelmed by the natural beauty of the universe, a low hum filled the planetarium. It spread through his plating and he shuddered, his young frame bending and swaying with it. The dome above dissolved and-

Music pounded through Mirage. The club was warm and strobe lights flashed. Mirage swayed to the song, warming up for their turn. This music wasn't his thing, but it _moved_. Skywarp stooped and Mirage adjusted the magnetic horns stuck to his helm. They were black and sparkly and ringed with red light strings. “Do they feel secure?” Mirage shouted.

“Eh. Mostly. Your fuckton of glitter is staying on pretty good.” Skywarp pushed flexible, light-emitting strings on Mirage's arms back into their lines of glue. They both had cheap decorations stuck to their frames in patterns, able to be activated at the right kind of touch. They loved dancing together- especially for money- but Mirage was very wary of them doing it too often. This particular performance made use of their unique abilities. And he worked very hard to not let their identities out. But sometimes they _really_ needed the cash.

Mirage made sure his fake cheek guard extenders were in place and approached the DJ. He leaned in close so the DJ could hear him. “That's our song.” He handed him a chip. “The light programming is for rig four.”

“You've done this before.” The DJ, a red mech with a yellow chest, winked at him.

Mirage just smiled.

“Names?”

“Mesmer and Vorp.”

“Hah!” The DJ shook glitter off the chip. _“Vorp?”_

Mirage shrugged. “He picked it. He thinks it's cool.”

“Heh. Whatever, mech.” The DJ shoved the chip into the complex soundboard before him. “You're up after the miners finish.”

Mirage nodded and returned to the side of the performance area, where Skywarp waited. They watched the miners' performance- thunderous stomping and flashing of lights. A majority of the troupe stood on each others' shoulders and formed a cave-like shape that the rest were dancing in. Their dance was loud, stomping, _formidable_. Their biolights were neon green and orange, pulsing with the industrial sound. Their dance told a story from the mines that ended with the mech-cave collapsing. 

As their song faded, the crowd erupted into cheers. Shanix were thrown and the miners scooped them up and shoved them away into the hollow spaces in their limbs. They weren't allowed to have subspace compartments.

“Aaaaaaannnd... next, a duo I haven't seen yet. But I've heard they show up every once in a while? Pull your sparks out for Mesmer and Vorp!”

Half the audience laughed. The other half _screamed_. That was the half that had seen them before. Mirage smiled at Skywarp and disappeared. Skywarp squinted and muted his biolights. 

A single spot light shone in the middle of the performance area. Mirage walked invisibly to it. As the music started- a beautiful, ancient metallic instrument playing a classic melody- he shimmered into view. The audience went quiet. He was, compared to all the performers before him, _bare_. His biolights were as dim as he could make them and none of the additional lights stuck to his body were turned on. Here, lights were life, and he was dead. 

Mirage danced with the instrument. It was an old, old song from one of his favorite plays. His movements were graceful and fluid- not at all what _this_ audience expected. Large, sweeping motions with slight tilts of his limbs that made his plating gleam in the lone spotlight. He leaned back on the wheels in his feet a little, just enough to roll and make his steps glide. He smiled and splayed his fingers and flexed the few small panels he had- elegant, tiny motions. It was a beautiful dance. 

Just as the audience bristled, the music stopped. Mirage bowed. Confused yells and boos filled the silence- 

The spot light went out. The whole club went dark.

There was a purple and white flash! 

Skywarp appeared midair, his reddish-purple biolights blaring. Faint, high-pitched sounds tumbled and collided with each other as he hovered, his red light strings illuminating from his core outwards, outlining his wings, his limbs, his horns, until he and the music were a vibrating, chaotic mess building and building and building until it- 

_stopped-_

and-

Skywarp _slammed_ to the floor behind Mirage as the beat dropped. The overhead lights flashed and a heavy beat tumbled beneath an echoed remix of the old melody. The audience roared.

Skywarp lunged forward. Mirage dramatically ducked to the side. He moved, still in the old, fluid style, but faster. Skywarp feigned gaining his bearings and took off after him.

Mirage dodged out of reach, throwing himself forward and transforming, screeching across the floor until spinning out back into robot mode. Skywarp followed in a zigzag pattern until he finally grabbed Mirage around the waist. 

And threw him at the audience. 

Mirage flickered in and out of visibility, like he was the living embodiment of a strobe light. The mechs in the audience backed up into each other. Skywarp appeared in a blinding flash and plucked him out of the air. Glitter rained down on the audience. He threw Mirage again, back across the performance floor, and caught him in a second flash at the other end.

The audience screamed and flashed their biolights. These were tricks of the light, of course. That's why they were all here- to see the latest crazy thing mechs dreamed up with lights and dance and music. But none of them could figure out how Skywarp had done it. He must be _fast_.

Skywarp warped them to the center of the space. As Mirage tried to get away, Skywarp clapped his hands on his shoulders. The light wires there activated in branching lines down Mirage's arms. Mirage tried again to escape but Skywarp stuck out his tongue and grabbed his interface panel. Lights shot down Mirage's legs. The audience whooped at the suggestive scene.

With all of his fake lights activated, Mirage finally let his biolights blare. The effect was that of Skywarp's touch bringing Mirage to life.

From there, the dance became more intimate, moving to the beat within a smaller space. Skywarp darted around Mirage with tight, controlled movements while Mirage danced in place. The alternating pulsing of their biolights, along with the club lighting, made a mesmeric effect; they were a single sparkling, writhing being made of light itself. Mirage furthered the illusion by rendering random parts of himself and Skywarp invisible, letting the light strings beneath the layers of their bodies show through.

Skywarp grabbed Mirage's axels and flipped him up and over. Mirage slunk down between his wings- Skywarp turned so the audience could get a view- and swung under Skywarp's legs. Skywarp pulled him up and they danced together, their alt mode pieces puzzling into one another as they semi-transformed parts of their bodies around each other. Skywarp spun Mirage one last time, and the music ended with their faces inches away. They grinned at each other, breathing hard. Shanix clacked at their feet as the audience's screams and roars blurred into a hum and-

Mirage groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. Hound's quarters smelled stale. “My neck. Why does it hurt?”

Hound handed him a drink and sat beside him on the berth. Mirage swirled the cup. It was half the usual swill, half something slightly better. “I dunno,” said Hound. He gently took Mirage's helm and bent his head to the side. “I don't see anything back there. No wounds or anything.” He released his helm, his fingers lingering at Mirage's jaw. “Prowl was sketchy on the details. Said you'd been infected by something organic, but the medic took care of it. Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes. I suppose.” Mirage eyed the walls. Hound hadn't repainted his quarters. They remained the same awful orange the rest of the Ark-8 sported. “Thank you,” he said, raising the cup to his lips.

“Welcome.”

Mirage grimaced as he drank. It wasn't the worst thing he'd ever tasted, but it sure wasn't the best.

“I'm glad you're okay,” said Hound. He shifted a little closer.

“Thank you.”

“You can... you can relax, you know,” said Hound. He wrapped an arm around Mirage. “Your field's gone again.” 

“Oh.” Mirage forced his field out a tiny bit. It brushed against Hound's. The other mech was concerned, wary. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Hound. He took Mirage's hand. Gold and silver wires grew out of the union of their interlaced fingers. Hard light holo wrapped around their wrists in intricate patterns. Mirage recognized them from one of their recent private games. “I was worried. You came back so confused. And then Prowl tasered you. Bastard.” Hound kissed Mirage's cheek. “I'm glad you're okay.”

Mirage smiled. He wove glowing purple threads between the wires and studded their intricate curls with stars. The weightless beauty of their shared, interwoven hard light creation eased the tenseness in his chest. “Thank you, Hound,” he said as a humming sound filled the room. “I always feel-”

“-better when I'm with you,” said Skywarp. He squeezed Mirage tight. His black and purple paint was crackled and bubbling, his biolights faint with exhaustion. “Uuuuuugh, that last delivery. Thundercracker got sick halfway through and I had to finish it all by myself.”

“Is he alright?”

“Yeah. Radiation sickness or something. I told him eating the nucleon rods in the Extraction Lab wouldn't make his sonic shit louder. But did he listen? Nooooo. Hid in the back of the warehouse and scarfed 'em down like a mad mech.”

“You didn't trick him into eating them?”

Skywarp made an expression of mock hurt. “Of course not! I stay the hell away from the Extraction Lab and everything in it. Those're the weirdos who'd lick my spark if I let them.”

“Poor Thundercracker,” said Mirage. “Anyhow, welcome home, darling.” He kissed Skywarp's nose, the cleanest part of his face. He swung his legs. “Are you going to put me down now?”

“No.” Skywarp grinned. He marched towards their bedroom. “First, I'm gonna fuck you. Then we're gonna order some goddamn food. Then I'm gonna sleep for two days straight.”

Mirage laughed. “Too tired even to make euphemisms! Oh dear.” He brushed dirt from Skywarp's cheek. “I don't suppose we could fit a shower in there...?”

“Uuuuuuuuuuugghhhhhhh. _Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine._ ” Skywarp changed direction. 

Mirage smirked and plotted to blind him with rainbows.

“I recognize that look,” said Skywarp. “Why can't you love me when I'm filthyyyyyyyy.” His faux-angry stomping and Mirage's laughter faded into a hum...

...and he was carrying a damn heavy coffin through the Lost Light, irritated by Megatron's barking orders and how Hot Spot kept accidentally stepping on the back of his feet...

...and he was sobbing at the feet of the High Priest, who had just disciplined him for speaking. A sub-plating barrage of electricity, his first experience with pain...

...and he was standing proudly before the Autobots, before Optimus Prime, accepting his badge, smiling at his new friends, ready to take on the threat of the Decepticons with them...

...and he was climbing a mountain in Pit 22, the fierce need for his face burning in him, pushing him further up the disgusting mound of slick, broken mechs...

...and he was chatting with Blurr about the intricacies of running a bar. He'd always thought it might be an interesting venture...

...and he was moaning between two mechs, the room hot and thick with their wild fields, the cheap institute bed creaking under their weight...

...and he slipped seamlessly from memory to memory, backdropped with the relentless hum of the program chugging through his processor.


	18. Skywarp

Skywarp's field filled the room with rage and his null rays powered up with a series of high-pitched tones. He stepped between the med bed and Flatline, raising his wings, blocking the light of the monitors. “You!”

_Shit._ Flatline froze. His missiles twitched against his back. He was absolutely certain he could take the Seeker out, but that scenario would involve a lot of damage to his shop. Not to mention what might happen to Mirage. _If I get him away from the bed, I can hit him with my field-_

“What did you do to him?!” screamed Skywarp. He held up his arm, aiming the null ray between Flatline's eyes. 

Flatline blinked. He glanced at Mirage. _Ah, right._ To Skywarp, the hollow helm of his once-lover must have been a startling sight. Not to mention the dozens of wires and tubes running into his unconscious body. Flatline weighed his options.

Flatline slowly lowered his missiles and raised his hands. “Mirage was injured. You know the true nature of his face. It shattered. He came to me to get a new one.” 

A stunning range of emotions passed through Skywarp- more than Flatline ever thought the Decepticon was capable of making. Shock, grief, disbelief. The Seeker's arm faltered, then steadied. “Butcher!”

“No! _He_ came to _me_. You can ask any of his Autobot-”

“Another one of your experiments?!”

“ _No._ Healing. Repair. This is a body shop, a medical clinic.” Flatline's missiles sank back with an audible click. “For Primus's sake, lower your weapons. I've disabled mine.” He flashed his weapons status across public comms.

Skywarp squinted as he evaluated the data. He kept his null rays trained on Flatline and bent toward the medical bed. “I'm taking him with me. Don't try to find us.”

“No! No! Mirage is in a very delicate state right now!”

“He's in danger here, with you!” Skywarp wiggled one arm underneath Mirage and pulled. The Autobot's helm tipped to the side. The thin lines and cables running into him from the bed strained and disconnected. Several of the monitors turned red and shrieked warnings.

“Stop!” Flatline stepped forward. “Don't move him!”

Skywarp snarled.

“The _monitors,_ Skywarp!”

Skywarp glanced at the failing vitals. His snarl pulled back into a grimace. He looked at Mirage's fading biolights, clearly torn between resting him back on the bed and warping him away. “I-”

“Put him down! If you take him, he won't wake up,” said Flatline. “He's in a medically induced coma right now. All of his base functions are being controlled by the bed. They'll cease if they're disconnected. Which you _just did!_ ”

Skywarp glared at Flatline and laid Mirage down. He turned away from the bed. “Why! _Every time!_ Every time I see him, _he's fucked up!”_ With a scream of rage and frustration, Skywarp swept his arm across a counter. A row of perfectly aligned containers smashed onto the floor. A few broke open, scattering their contents. 

“What the _fuck,_ Skywarp!” Flatline darted forward while Skywarp seethed. He repositioned Mirage and frantically reconnected the cables that had been dislodged. “Do you have to destroy everything you touch?!”

“Shut up!” Skywarp pulled back his fist.

Usually, Flatline wasn't even half as fast as a Seeker, but he was still feeling the effects of the jolt that had woken him. He caught Skywarp's fist in his palm. _“Stop.”_ His field radiated a deadly seriousness. He squeezed Skywarp's fist. “Or _I will stop you._ ”

Skywarp's eyes widened. He shuddered. His null rays sank back into his forearms. “Let go!” He twitched the small plates in his wings, trying to focus his rage elsewhere. 

Flatline released his fist. Skywarp shook it out. Flatline snapped at the monitors and their shrieking alarms ceased. 

Both mechs' audials rang in the silence.

Flatline worked frantically. “You're lucky. Or rather, _he's_ lucky.” Flatline grabbed light monitors, flicked them here and there, pulled and twisted wires. “I don't see any damage.”

“Good!” Skywarp paced around the bed, glaring at it, the room brimming with his chaotic anger.

_Ugh, this is just like being on **The Irradion** again,_ thought Flatline. _Everyone's pissed and nothing gets done right._

“What are you _doing_ here?” Flatline asked, keeping his voice as calm and low as he could.

Skywarp clenched and unclenched his fists. “You wouldn't understand.”

“Try me,” said Flatline. “Mirage has told me a lot about you. Unbelievable shit.”

Skywarp's field flashed with surprise. “He told you about me?”

“As much as he remembers.”

Skywarp made a disgusted sound. “Did he tell you what they did to him? The Autobots?”

“He talked mostly about pre-war life,” Flatline said carefully.

“They _needled_ him. Do you know the expiration date for mnemosurgery on outliers?”

Flatline blinked. “Uh. I'm not certain enough research has been done-”

“Two million years,” spat Skywarp. He ceased his pacing and stood opposite Flatline at the medical bed. “Fuckin' Autobots blanked him at the start of the war and then again halfway through it.”

“Two instances, confirmed. But why the second time?” 

“Cuz _I_ was there. And the first round was wearin' off.”

“Ah.” Flatline discreetly sent a monitor behind Skywarp. He watched it as nonchalantly as possible while the Seeker glared, unaware. Flatline pointed at the floor. “You gonna clean this mess you made or what?”

Skywarp kicked at the piles of powder, scattering them. “There.”

“Fuckin' _don't do that,_ ” said Flatline. “You're pissing me off, Skywarp. What's wrong with you? Why're you so mad? Mirage is getting help. He came here willingly. Cool off, mech.”

Skywarp's fingers flexed.

“ _Don't_ touch him,” said Flatline. 

Skywarp flicked his wings in irritation. “What _is_ all this? What're you doing to him?”

Flatline pointed to several light monitors. “He's undergoing a procedure to try to repair the damage the mnemosurgeries did. The code's right there if you want to read it yourself.”

Skywarp ignored the monitors. “When will he be better?”

“You plannin' to keep bargin' in here and fuckin' up my work? Another month.”

“A month!”

“It'll be less if you go away!”

“I ain't leaving without him.” Skywarp scowled. “Can he hear us?”

“Maybe. Possibly.”

At that, Skywarp's field finally lost its edge. He pulled it in to a reasonable distance. With a glare at Flatline, he bent and whispered something in Mirage's audial.

Flatline glanced at the monitors. They remained steady. Whatever Skywarp had said, Mirage was not responding to it.

Skywarp's wings drooped when he stood again. His biolights flickered as he looked up and down Mirage's still form. He crossed his arms over his chest. The burst of energy from his rage subsided, replaced by a slow understanding of what lay before him.

He looked so sad, Flatline _almost_ felt sorry for him. “Tell ya what,” said Flatline, tugging wires and cords into place. “If you clean up the mess you made, I'll let you hold his hand.”

“Fuck off.”

“Rude.”

“Whatever.” Skywarp watched Mirage breathe, followed all the wires and cords going into his body. Flatline saw, oh so subtly, how he blinked when he looked at Mirage's empty helm. The edges of his mouth pulled back and his field receded further. He reset his vocalizer. “What happened to him? Who did it!”

“It was an accident,” said Flatline. “He didn't go into details. It happened on the Lost Light.”

“Did it hurt? When it happened?”

“He didn't say so,” said Flatline. “I suspect he went offline from the impact.”

Skywarp frowned. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“His _face._ ”

Flatline patted the last of the cables into place. “An associate of mine is analyzing it so a replacement can be made. It shattered on impact. Mirage did keep one piece for himself.” He repositioned a few light monitors. “He's stable now and the cycle has resumed.” Flatline allowed himself a moment to breathe. “That was a very, very dangerous and awful thing you just did, Skywarp! Just in case you're keeping track. Add it to your tally.”

Skywarp protested. Flatline ignored him and pulled a broom out of a cabinet. He handed it to Skywarp.

Skywarp scowled and snatched it from Flatline. He hastily swept up the broken containers and their contents, muttering darkly.

“That's at least four hundred shanix worth of materials,” said Flatline. “My associate may be able to separate the components but it will be a costly endeavor.” 

“I don't have any money,” said Skywarp. “I don't have _anything_.”

“Aren't you in Galvatron's entourage?”

“You think that's a paid gig?” Skywarp dumped the wasted materials into the recycling bin Flatline indicated. “I've been sent all over the goddamn place ever since Megatron turned. Who's in charge of the Deceptions right now? Soundwave, Galvatron?”

“Pff. As if I care.”

“Yeah, you wouldn't. You left, didn't you?” Skywarp helped himself to one of the wheeled stools and pulled it next to the bed. The light monitors shifted, avoiding his wings. He took Mirage's hand. “I think you got yourself on The List for that.”

“I imagine I did. It was always in the back of my mind before the war ended. I wondered how I ranked on that list...”

“I'd be on it now, too. If it _mattered_ anymore.” Skywarp gestured to the med bed and its wires. “When all this bullshit is over with, will he remember me?”

“As much as I'd like to say such a thing would be a great tragedy,” said Flatline. “That _is_ the goal of all this _bullshit_ , yes. Restoring his lost memories. Which, for reasons beyond my comprehension, include you.”

“I told you you wouldn't understand.” Skywarp's gaze kept returning to that shadow-filled helm. He pressed Mirage's hand against his lips and held it there.

Flatline focused on the monitors behind Skywarp, scanning him for everything he could. Primus knew if he'd ever get another opportunity. More data for his banks, more possibilities for the future... It was stolen data, technically. He hadn't asked for permission. But neither had Skywarp, when he had barged in.

Skywarp's vitals were unusual. Even after he had visibly calmed down, they were all elevated.

_Interesting... these readings align with elevated pain responses. But they are not abating..._

“He told me about you two, but I couldn't believe it,” said Flatline. “ _Our_ history is basically confined to those few wonderful weeks on _The Irradion_. I didn't think you had any emotions other than anger.”

Skywarp rolled his eyes.

“Legitimately, I didn't! So many Decepticons have anger issues, you know. _So_ many.”

Skywarp moved Mirage's hand away from his lips just far enough to speak. “You killswitched me. I remember.”

“I had to! You were out of your _goddamn mind._ ”

“Yeah, well. I'd just got shitty news.” His wings twitched. “Can you really still do that?”

“I almost did it to you five minutes ago.”

Skywarp made a low noise in his throat. 

“Hey, _you're_ the one who broke in here and compromised my patient.” Flatline made a grand gesture. “I think _I_ deserve an award for de-escalating the situation without anyone getting hurt. Except my precious materials.”

“I had to find him! And he was here.”

“Yeah? Congrats, you found him. But you need to leave now,” said Flatline. “I wanna go back to bed.”

“I'm _not_ leaving.”

“Yes, you are.” Flatline pointed to the monitors. “There's the countdown. Read it yourself. He's not gonna wake up til tomorrow. And I'm not leaving you unattended while I sleep. So, go somewhere else. You can come back later. He'll still be here. He'll be safe. Medic's honor.”

Skywarp leaned over Mirage. The medical bed obliged, altering its bunches of panels to accommodate him. “No.”

“Yes.”

“You know I'll just come back again.” Skywarp gave him a tiny, irritating grin. “And again and again. I can find him even when you can't see him.”

Flatline growled. Fatigue hit him as the last of his energon jolt faded. His drained processor did a half-assed assessment. Skywarp would _absolutely_ return the moment Flatline left the room. That would set off the sensors and interrupt Flatline's recharge, over and over, til he went ballistic. Flatline didn't have the means to keep Skywarp out, other than fully deactivating him. That was a solution _way_ too tempting to use- simple at first, but complicated later. 

Flatline took in the Seeker's hunched body posture, glaring eyes, and skulking field. Skywarp was so protective of Mirage, he might just be a better sentry than the shop's own sensors.

Not that anyone _other than_ Skywarp could break in, anyway.

“Fine. You can stay _one night_. But _don't_ touch any of my stuff. _Don't_ move Mirage. And for Primus's sake, don't shoot Spreem when he drops off my breakfast at 06:30.”

Skywarp gave him a confused look.

“And don't try to get on that bed with him. It'll take your weight but it'll adapt its current procedure onto you and force you into deep recharge.” This wasn't at all true, but Flatline didn't want Skywarp getting any ideas. He spent a moment very obviously instructing the monitors to record the area. Then he grinned, finials sweeping forward. “Unless you don't mind me poking around inside you, that is. Then, by all means, _climb on._ ”

Skywarp narrowed his eyes and leaned away from the bed.

_Thought so._ With a final warning not to touch anything, Flatline left.

~~

Skywarp released a held curse. Goddamn, the medic was irritating. And still _creepy_ as hell. His field had that empty _texture_ to it... Skywarp glanced at the monitors. They hung innocently in the air, pulsing a gentle green. He didn't trust them one bit. He was probably being scanned with twenty different probes right now.

Whatever. 

Skywarp swallowed back his welling sadness. “Fucking hell, I've missed you! It's hurt so _bad_... who did this to you? Who did it?”

Mirage's field was gone and his biolights were dim. Skywarp thought he could see the glint of his brain in the depths of his helm. Only Mirage's plating showed any signs of life- a slight motion as he breathed, a faint warmth to the touch.

Skywarp brushed the side of Mirage's helm. He hadn't noticed the injury the times he'd found Mirage these past few weeks- things were always dark or chaotic or Galvatron was screaming in his audials to return to the ship or someone or something was shooting at them-

The sight of his lover's missing face, in a motionless body hooked up to a freak show of a medical bed in the shop of a dangerous mech, had thrown his spark into a frenzy of confusion and anger. 

Now he was just sad. That beautiful, beautiful face was gone forever, and who knew _what_ that damage had done to Mirage on the inside. And Mirage had, for _some_ reason, come to _this_ asshole to get it fixed. Probably been subjected to all kinds of sick experimentation in the meantime. How fucking unfair was that?

“I dunno if you can hear me,” Skywarp said. “But I'm here now. As soon as you wake up, we'll leave. I'll get you outta here.” He squeezed Mirage's hand, like he was saying good night, like he had done years and years ago. 

~~

“Oh.” Flatline pulled back the curtain. He held Spreem's breakfast delivery out in front of him like it might explode. “You're still here.” 

Skywarp looked up blearily. He had been resting his head in his arms, leaning over the bed. “Bwuh?”

“I was hoping you got bored and left. Ah well. Go home, Skywarp. Wherever that may be.” Flatline skirted around him, pushing monitors and adjusting wires. “Go get some food, take a shower.”

“Nnnnnuh.”

“Yuhhhhhh,” said Flatline. He turned one of the monitors away from Skywarp and watched the night's recording, sped up. The Seeker had stayed in the same spot. Awake for about an hour, holding Mirage's hand and occasionally touching his arms or his helm, then falling into a restless sleep until he jolted awake at 06:30 sharp. He raised the null rays, but after a few minutes (Flatline guessed Spreem had entered, as usual, left the food and then exited), settled down again.

Flatline flicked through screens on the light monitor. The bioscans on Skywarp showed his field swelling and receding during the night, sometimes with an enormous intensity. The mech was _powerful_. But, Flatline supposed, Skywarp would have to be to move instantaneously through _space itself_. 

Skywarp was much more powerful now than he had been on _The Irradion_. That old outlier trend towards increased ability- it was just about the only thing all outliers had in common.

There was one other thing about the bioscans that caught Flatline's eye. Fluctuations in Skywarp's spark/lines output, matching up to patterns from his processor. Very _specific_ fluctuations that Flatline was familiar with from his work in the medical field.

Very, _very_ interesting... maybe he'd let Skywarp stick around a little longer, just to see what was up with that.

“Seriously. Go get some food.” Flatline shook the plate Spreem had left for him. The food on it jiggled. “Get me some, too.”

“What?! I ain't no delivery mech. Fuck off.”

Flatline pushed the light monitor aside and shot him a look. “You _really_ need an attitude adjustment. You owe _me_ money, glitch. Pretend to be polite and maybe I'll let you stick around. You do understand that I am not in any way obligated to let you remain here?”

“I'll just come back-”

“Not if I killswitch you.”

Skywarp narrowed his eyes. “You woulda done that last night if you were gonna do it.”

“Last night I was _really tired,_ ” said Flatline. He turned around, looked back at Skywarp, and stretched, rustling his missiles. “I'm more of a morning mech. I feel _energized_ now.”

Skywarp growled.

“It's really not all that hard to _be civil_ to the person who is fixing your ex. Giving him a second chance. He came to me. _He_ trusts me. You should, too.”

“He's _not_ an _ex_. And trust is earned,” said Skywarp.

“Fine.” Flatline resumed flicking through monitors. “But I left the Decepticons and their shitty attitudes a long time ago. I don't want you dragging that back in. I don't want it in my life! Got it? This is a neutral place. A place where a trigger-happy Decepticon is sitting next to an offline Autobot and not putting 300 bullets through his head. So ditch the attitude. Or I'll do it for you.”

Skywarp's wings flared up but he said nothing.

“I want an energon bundle from the red building down the street, heading west. Tell them it's for me. They know what I like.”

“When I said I had nothing,” said Skywarp, his voice low with anger, “I meant it. I don't have any money.”

“Broke _and_ ornery. What a winner.” Flatline pulled five shanix from subspace and held them out to Skywarp.

Skywarp glared at his hand.

“What? You wanna eat, too, right? There's enough there for both of us. You should try the-”

“Is this some kinda insult?”

“No, you idiot.” Flatline shoved the money into Skywarp's hand. “I'm hungry. Get us some goddamn food while I prep for Mirage to wake up.”

Skywarp's thick fingers curled around the money. “You gonna hold this over my head?”

“Absolutely!” Flatline's finials swung forward. 

Skywarp glanced at Mirage, then back at Flatline. He sneered and disappeared in a flash of white light.

Flatline blinked. “That's brighter than I remember.” He picked up the plate Spreem had brought and sniffed. “Ugh.” He removed his mask and tasted it. Half of it was the usual inedible burned slop, but the other half was a strange, colorful gelatinous mound. He tried it. “Huh.” He ate the mound, replaced his mask, dumped the rest and flung the plate into its spot. 

Skywarp reappeared in a flash. He handed Flatline a bag.

“ _Thank_ you,” said Flatline.

Skywarp sat next to the bed, opening his own bag.

“And you sayyyy,” prompted Flatline.

“Welcome,” muttered Skywarp.

“Good! How did Mirage put up with you? Guess none of those fine cult manners rubbed off on you.” 

Skywarp _glared_ at him. “Why the _fuck_ did he tell _you_ about that?”

Flatline shrugged. “You could view it as a sign of trust,” he said. “Equal information exchange.” He sat at the other side of the medical bed and pulled up some stools. He laid out the energon bundle, one of his favorite Camien dishes: a variety of small, pretty snacks all packaged together. “I really like this meal. Lots of different things to try.”

Skywarp muttered something unintelligible.

“And Mirage almost had me convinced that you were eloquent.”

Skywarp's eyes flashed. “What do you want me to say, Flatline? We're not friends just cuz we're sitting here together.”

“Fine, sour the fun mood.” Flatline removed his mask. He pointedly enjoyed his meal, mixing his favorite components together, savoring the flavors.

Skywarp hunched over, jamming food into his mouth, chewing loudly. He looked back and forth between the monitors and Mirage.

“It occurs to me,” said Flatline convivially, “that you have an opportunity to help Mirage in a very important way.”

Skywarp glanced at him.

“Mirage was... performing tasks for me, in place of payment for the new face. Labor trade. You owe me 402.50 shanix. Do you want to take on his labor trade while you're repaying me?”

Skywarp frowned. “What kinda tasks?”

“We can discuss the details later. Just think about it. He's unable to perform in his current state. Your assistance would be _most appreciated,_ I think.”

“How much did he owe?”

Flatline told him.

“Fucking hell, Flatline! Who has that much money?!”

“Attitude,” said Flatline lightly. “And, apparently, not him. Even though he looks like that. Coulda fooled me. But, he has traded about nineteen percent in labor so far.”

Skywarp chewed a slice of red energon, studying the medic. “That why he was in morgues?”

“Perceptive! And yes.” Flatline gathered the wrappers for his meal and disposed of them. “He was collecting materials for me.”

“Dead people parts.”

“Yep.”

Skywarp licked his fingers. “Why don't you just kill whoever's got the parts you need? I don't think using dead people parts is smart. Fresh is better.”

Flatline laughed. “Wow,” he said. “Damn. You know we're in peacetime, right?”

“What? It's more efficient than wandering around increasingly armed places in the middle of the night.”

“Right,” said Flatline. “The problem is I don't know who the target _is_. I've been taking samples for years, using various methods. There are only nine of the right people out there in the whole universe.” He clicked his mask back in place.

Skywarp shrugged. “Fine. I'll do it.”

Flatline's finials swung up. “Excellent!” This was remarkably easier than convincing Mirage had been. But, of course, what good Decepticon would shirk from hacking up bodies? Simple orders for simple mechs.

“This clears him and me, yeah? All the way? No tricky shit?”

“Nothing tricky at all,” said Flatline. “If you clear the debt, you're both free of any obligations towards me. You got a blow torch?”

“I got null rays...”

“Nah, that won't do it.” Flatline gave Skywarp a portable blow torch, a subspace key, and the rules for collection. “You got all that?”

“Yeah, yeah. Fellow Decepticon. Feet only. No biolights or shit.”

“Right.” Flatline's finials swung excitedly. 

Skywarp tucked the blow torch away. “He's almost ready to wake up, right?”

“Huh? Oh. Yes.” Flatline gathered the monitors. “For Primus's sake, don't say anything when he first wakes. He'll likely be confused and disoriented. Just wait.”

Skywarp's wings flicked. His field rippled with excitement. He leaned forward, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a smile. 

With a short alarm, Mirage's body jolted and his field flowed out in sleepy confusion. His eyes and biolights brightened. Static flooded the public frequencies.

.:Hello?:. The greeting was on the low frequency he used with Flatline.

“Hey, Mirage,” said Flatline. “How do you feel?”

.:Tired:. Mirage shifted slowly. .:My mind feels... busy. I jumped so frantically between memories. But I think I'm alright:.

“Great! I'm gonna disengage you from the bed. Let me know if anything hurts.” Flatline gently pulled the cords and wires away. “Preliminary scans look good. You're stable, though I can see the exhaustion in your vitals. You're probably going to be very tired for the next few days as the program continues to work.”

.:Alright:.

“Do you have any questions right now?”

.:No, I don't think so:. Mirage rubbed the sides of his helm. .:So many... things...:.

Flatline glanced at Skywarp. “Someone's here to visit. But he can't hear you. Hop onto the public frequencies.”

.:Someone's here?:. Mirage flicked his face on.

Skywarp took a sharp breath. 

Flatline pushed a panel and the bed brought Mirage up to a sitting position.

.:Can you hear me?:.

“Yes!” Skywarp leaned forward, his field popping with happiness. “Hello, Mirage!”

.:Hello:. The blank, holo face swiveled between Flatline and Skywarp. .:Who are you?:.

Skywarp's smile fell into a look of despair. “I'm- ukhh.” A pang of sorrow boomeranged around the room before he drew his field in. He reset his vocalizer. “Skywarp.”

_.:Skywarp?!:._

“Yeah,” said Skywarp, failing to keep the sadness out of his voice. “You _still_ don't remember me?” He placed his hand on Mirage's arm.

Mirage's arm twitched. .:You don't _look_ like Skywarp:.

Skywarp shut his eyes. He took a deep breath. He opened his eyes. They were clouded at the edges with white static. “I know,” he said. “I look different from the last time you saw me.”

“He's stable. I'll give you two some space,” said Flatline. “ _Don't_ upset him. I'll be back in twenty minutes.” He pointed to the light monitor measuring _Stress Response._

Skywarp nodded.

Flatline left the patient alcove, letting the curtain fall into place behind him.

Skywarp edged the stool closer. He took Mirage's hand. “Maybe you'll remember me by this,” he said, and gently let his field out. It split into multiples, filling the space between them, thick with emotion and abstract sensations.

.:Oh...:. Mirage sat up straighter. 

Skywarp kissed his hand. He pressed his face into it. “Please tell me you remember,” he said, voice staticky.

.:I'm trying:. Mirage's field pulsed with a mixture of puzzlement and concentration. .:Something isn't clicking... I can't quite... grasp...:. 

“I know I look different,” said Skywarp. “But I'm here, down deep in this frame. And I never...” he looked away, blinking. “I can't do this a third time.”

.:Please, don't cry. Will you help me up? I feel quite tired:. 

Skywarp helped him swing his legs away from the shifting panels of the bed. Suddenly, Skywarp's arms were the wrong color. He gaped at them. Skywarp's very first frame appeared around him, like a shell, and he almost fell off the stool in surprise. “What-!”

.:Ohh, it is you!:. Happiness flitted through Mirage's field. .:The you I have seen in dreams!:.

The frame disappeared. Before Skywarp could even process what had happened, Mirage was reaching for him, and he pulled the smaller mech onto his lap. Mirage pressed his body against Skywarp, his engine purring with sleepy contentment.

“What was that?!”

Mirage smiled up at Skywarp. .:Hard light holo. Like the face I'm projecting:.

Skywarp touched Mirage's cheek. It felt ever so slightly springy, like other hard light facsimiles he had encountered. “Can you feel that?”

.:No. I direly wish I could:.

“How do you do that?”

.:It's like holoavatar tech:.

“Holowhat?”

.:Wartime mods. Wartime software. I don't want to talk about the war:.

“No, no, definitely not.” Skywarp wrapped his arms around Mirage. “You're sure you remember me?”

.:A bit. Your new frame confused me. I've just experienced so many memories... Everything feels... very fuzzy and strange right now:. Mirage snuggled into Skywarp. .:Your new frame is very nice, but I'm _so_ happy you did not change your biolight color:. He traced a biolight that curved around Skywarp's torso. Skywarp's plating shivered beneath his touch. .:So _beautiful_ :.

“I could never change it.” Skywarp positioned his arms around Mirage gently, as if he were made entirely of glass. “Okay, let's get out of here.”

.:What? No, no. We can't leave:.

“But Flatline's a whackjob! He's gonna take you apart and mix you up with the dead people that he's been making you get and then he'll... I don't know _what_ he'll do, but he'll do something. C'mon, let's go. I'll take you somewhere safe.” Energy gathered around them, sizzling the air.

.:No!:. Mirage pushed Skywarp's chest, as if to stuff all that energy back into him. .:He's helping me! He's making my new face. I can't leave now!:.

“But-”

_.:No:._

Skywarp looked at him incredulously. “Are you _sure?!_ He's a-”

.:Yes, I'm sure!:.

Skywarp's jaw dropped, but the energy around them dissipated. “Okay,” he said uncertainly. “If that's what you want.”

.:It is:.

Skywarp blinked. This wasn't going _at all_ how he thought it would. By now had he wanted to be on the other side of the city, just the two of them, starting over together and destroying anyone who got in their way. But Mirage didn't want to leave! Now he'd have to do all that body part gathering he'd agreed to-

Mirage leaned into him again and Skywarp's lines pulsed with their usual pain and he dismissed the entire bizarre scenario from his mind. Fucked up as it was, it was already a better reunion than last time. At least Mirage wasn't crying. Most of what he was saying made sense. And neither of them were gonna get slagged for disappearing from their bases in the middle of the night.

Whatever. As long as he could have _this_ again. 

Very slowly, he ran his hands along Mirage's frame. The mech felt _so_ good, just as he always had. Skywarp let his field out a little more, testing how far he could go before Mirage stopped him.

But he didn't. Mirage's field blurred with his, confused and tired and disoriented. He showed no signs of discomfort with the physical touch. “What's the last thing you remember about us?”

.:You held me... as I slept. In a cave, I think:.

Skywarp pressed his lips against Mirage's head crest. “I'm glad you remember that,” he said. “That was the last thing we did before they got you again.”

.:The Autobots?:.

“Yeah.” 

There was a very long pause before Mirage sent, .:mnemosurgery?:. His field retracted a bit, his biolights slowed. He sagged against Skywarp. .:I'm so... tired:.

“Yeah.” Skywarp hugged Mirage tight. “I missed you so much. It hurt _so much_.”

.:I'm sorry... I'm sorry you were in pain:.

“It's not your fault.” Skywarp pushed the stool away from the bed. He gently positioned Mirage's legs so his wheels wouldn't be punctured by Skywarp's sharp plating. Mirage didn't resist; he let his arms rest at his sides until Skywarp arranged them, too. Skywarp traced the long seams in Mirage's limbs, touched his joints and biolights and wheels, as if checking that everything was present. He rested his hands at Mirage's waist, slowly stroking the edges of his pelvic plating. “Does it hurt to do the holo face? You don't have to.”

Gratitude flooded through Mirage. No one had ever asked him that, or given him the courtesy of the option to turn it off. .:It doesn't hurt... but I would prefer... not to concentrate on it right now:.

“Then don't.”

The holo face disappeared. Skywarp didn't react with disgust or horror or clinical interest. Mirage leaned his helm against Skywarp's chest. Skywarp stroked and kissed it softly, his field a mixture of anguish and relief. Mirage was too tired to push against it. He just slumped against Skywarp's cockpit, listened to his sparkbeat, and shivered under his gentle touches.

They sat together, fields blending. Skywarp slowly bled out millions of years worth of grief and pain and Mirage mirrored it with exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	19. The Eternal Light

Flatline finally drove Skywarp out of the patient alcove by reciting the introduction to the patient rights code. And flaring out his field meaningfully. And flickering the sparkbeat-shaped biolights in his forearms. The Seeker had retreated with a growl. 

Mirage remained on the med bed, field contracting and expanding with confusion and disorientation.

“Your primary assessment is good!” Flatline patted one of the light monitors. “The program has completed its first step successfully. I sent the results to my acquaintance and he was very excited about them. He says they look great. I am confident you will find a good measure of memory recovery from it.”

.:Wonderful!:. Mirage's biolights blinked in a happy pattern.

“The program is going to continue running for the next day or two. Like a hum in the back of your mind. The bed did the heavy lifting of restoring the memories and granting you access to them. Now your processor has to sift through and reorganize them all. It'll proceed with guidance from the program- making sure things are in chronological order, et cetera.”

Mirage nodded. .:I can feel it:.

“We'll do an extended assessment later today. I want to give your processor a chance to operate normally for a while before poking at it some more.” Flatline tapped at a monitor. “If you feel sudden bouts of exhaustion, don't worry. That's normal. Just rest a bit.”

.:Alright:.

“I have a patient coming in for a hardware installation,” said Flatline. “I'll need the alcove clear for the rest of the day. This is a, shall we say, very important client whose privacy is imperative to maintain.”

This piqued Mirage's interest.

“The appointment was not able to be rescheduled. You and Skywarp should go somewhere together, catch up. Keep the conversation light. Come back tonight.”

.:Alright. Good luck with the procedure:. 

“Thank you.” Flatline helped Mirage down from the bed. “Do you have any questions?”

.:When did Skywarp arrive? Did you call for him?:.

“Pff. _No_. He broke in here last night.”

.:Oh:. Mirage rubbed the sides of his helm. .:I feel at times very blurry in my mind, and at times very clear. When I am blurry, I feel gentleness at the thought of him. When I am clear, I feel wary. There's something about the situation that I cannot firmly grasp, but makes me uneasy. Am I... Am I supposed to be happy he's here?:.

“ _I'm_ not.” Flatline looked at him. “I imagine blurry-Mirage is your past and clear-Mirage is you as you are. And have been for about four million years. It's understandable why they'd each have a different reaction to him.” Flatline raised an orbital arch. “I'd advise you listen to your clearest thoughts.”

.:Oh:.

“It's gonna be confusing. Follow your instincts.”

.:Alright:.

“Any other questions?”

Mirage shook his head.

“Okay, you're done for now.” Flatline handed him a few cans of liquid energon. “Got your adaptor? Good. Another assessment later tonight. Can you send Skywarp in, please?”

Mirage exited the patient alcove and a moment later Skywarp pulled back the curtain, frowning. 

Flatline pointed at him. “You.” He beaconed.

Skywarp scowled and entered the alcove. He crossed his arms. _“What?”_

“Mirage is _literally_ reliving his entire life in the back of his mind right now. Including thousands and thousands of years he can't remember. He's going to be confused. Possibly exhibit erratic behavior. He's going to go back and forth with things and ideas and abstracts that you and I can't even guess at. The _architecture_ of his life is changing. Things he thought he knew for certain are no longer so.”

Skywarp blinked. “Is he gonna be okay?”

“Yes, I think so. He's not a danger to himself.” Flatline gave Skywarp a long, long look.

“Hey, what're you implying?!”

“That you get pissed off if someone says something you don't like. So, for once in your life, _don't._ ” Flatline gestured in annoyance. “I don't like the idea of you two wandering off, but you're the key to unlocking his past. You two have things to work out that don't involve me. So, for fuck's sake, look at him for what he is right now: sick. He's recovering. He's _in recovery._ Try to be a...” Flatline shook his head with disgust. “If you _can_ , try to be a stabilizing force in his life.”

Skywarp gaped at him. Then he let out an ugly laugh. “You don't know anything about us,” he said. “You're asking the sun to shine. But that's a stupid fucking question, cuz shining is all it knows how to do.”

Flatline's finials went down. “A metaphor. You've surprised me. Maybe you _won't_ completely fuck this up.” He pointed to Skywarp's wings as they rose in anger. “See? Reacting already. Just shut the hell up and _listen_ to him. It's _easy_. That's all you gotta do. Shut up. Listen.” Flatline pushed past him and out into the main room before he could protest.

Mirage was standing by the consoles, his holo face blank, field pulled in. .:Is everything alright?:.

“Yeah,” said Skywarp. He shot Flatline a look. 

Flatline ignored him. “I'll comm you when we're done with the procedure for my client.”

.:Alright. Good luck:.

Skywarp took Mirage's hand and pulled him out of the shop.

Flatline waited til the shop door closed. He comm'd Quickmix. .:You'll never guess who showed up last night! Gave us the perfect distraction for Mirage, though. He's gone for the day:.

.:Ooo... is my special client ready?:.

.:He's gonna have to be. I'll begin the necessary arrangements. Bring that other thing you've been working on, too. I want to do a few tests while we have the equipment running:.

~~

Skywarp picked a random direction and walked. Mirage prepared to quicken his step to keep up with the taller mech, but Skywarp went at a pace that was comfortable for both of them. Camiens and Cybertronians gave them a wide berth on the sidewalk: Skywarp refused to tuck his wings back, a courtesy winged mechs employed when walking. Mirage caught their reproachful glares.

.:What did Flatline want?:.

“He wants me to take care of you. Pff.” Skywarp threw his arm around Mirage's shoulder and kissed the top of his helm. “Doesn't know that's what I do best.”

Mirage startled. The Decepticon had just _kissed_ him. As if they'd known each other for years. And in _public_ , no less. Before he could protest, Skywarp asked, “who do you think the client is?”

The sudden subject change shifted Mirage's focus. He forgot about Skywarp's indiscretion. .:I don't know. I must admit, I'm quite tempted to know. He gets up to all kinds of interesting things:. Mirage thought back to the most recent project Flatline had worked on. .:I suspect it is someone who turns into both a boat and a plane:.

“Hmph. _Showoff._ Let's wait a few and then I'll go check.” Skywarp steered them into an alley. He passed the time with off-color jokes and Mirage's field brightened with laughter. After a rousing stanza of “The Mech With Spike Treads,” Skywarp vanished in a flash of light. A moment later, he re-appeared. “It's some little red and white Autobot. He had a big wing-lookin' like thing with him and a bucket. Flatline looked really annoyed to see him.”

.:Did he have a mixer in his chest?:.

“Yeah.”

.:That's Quickmix. He's...:. Mirage wasn't sure how to describe him. .:He works with Flatline. He makes metals and such things. He's probably helping with the wing installation, since he makes the parts. Bit of an odious fellow:.

“Oh. Then whoever they're working on isn't there yet. That gross bed thing was all set up but no one was in it.”

.:Hmm:. Mirage thought back to numerous occasions when he'd waited impatiently outside a higher-up's office door. .:It is often true that important people make others wait. It's rude, but it is done:. 

“I can check again in a few minutes.”

.:No. It would be wrong to interfere. I made a promise that I would not dig into things that aren't my business:. Mirage projected a smile. .:Besides, I would like to chat with you!:.

Skywarp grinned, his reddish purple biolights brightening. 

.:Where would you like to g-:.

Skywarp threw his arms around Mirage.

VOP!!

Upon rematerialization, Mirage's sense of balance and orientation completely upended. His altimeter went _berserk_. 

He was upside-down, engulfed in an endless, bluish yellow light. Mirage shielded his eyes. The cold air numbed his plating. He felt pressure where Skywarp had grabbed him, but he couldn't see his companion. He kicked- nothing below him, nothing around him. Confusion burst through his field as he scrabbled for any kind of anchor. He blared distorted data across the public frequencies.

“Whoa! You're okay, you're okay. I gotcha,” came Skywarp's voice. “Reset your eyes.”

Mirage did so. A dark silhouette appeared before him, then Skywarp's features snapped into view. The flier's engines roared in his audials. Frigid air gusted between them and pushed through his holo face. It swirled inside his helm and chilled his eyes. He shivered.

Behind Skywarp there was nothing but empty sky. They were hovering in midair. 

Mirage's brain, still humming its way through the programming, could barely process what it was sensing. .:What?!:.

“I wanted to show you something!” Skywarp flipped Mirage around and tilted him towards the ground. “This is the only angle Iacon is worth looking at from!”

Below them, _far_ beyond Mirage's dangling legs, were buildings and towers glittering in the sun, surrounded on all sides by scarred and bare land. Mirage had only ever seen Iacon at this angle from safely inside a space ship or shuttle. He dug his fingers into Skywarp's forearms, panic rising in his chest. He pushed himself backwards, away from the ground and all the nothingness between it and him. .:Skywarp! Skywarp put me down!:.

“What? You love sky views!” Skywarp bent his knees and pulled Mirage against his lap. His cockpit fit between Mirage's back axels. The buildings below distorted in the heat from his heel stabilizers. “You're okay! We've done this a billion times.” He slid his hands into the space between Mirage's thighs and his pelvic plating, where a harness would sit. He purred, rubbing the cables there.

Mirage's field pulsed with fear. .:Skywarp!!:. He tried again to push himself away from the nothing all around him, but there was nowhere to go. The wheels in his feet spun uselessly. Ice crystals curled across his plating and he scratched at it frantically. .:Please!:.

“You're okay! I got you!” Skywarp shifted his arms, trying to contain the struggling mech. “Stop kicking, it's _okay-_ ” 

Mirage slipped a fraction of an inch in Skywarp's arms, but to him, it felt like the beginning of an endless plummet. His biolights flashed in fear. 

Mirage's processor, scared and overtaxed, blasted an emergency signal through his body. His limbs jerked. All the spare length of cabling inside him evacuated through his elbows and knees and looped tightly around Skywarp, anchoring them firmly together. Blood spurted from his joints, spattering their plating. 

“What the hell?!” Skywarp startled, twitching in the warm, wet bonds. His engines cut out and Mirage's altimeter _screamed_.

VOP!!

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” 

Mirage's shivering eased as he reset his eyes again. The frigid weightlessness was gone, replaced by heavy warmth. Skywarp had brought them to the ledge of a rocky cliffside overlooking the city. Skywarp hovered a moment, then landed. Their limbs were still bound together. Mirage hung above the ground, awkwardly fastened to Skywarp's lap by his own cables.

Pain radiated from his joints.

“Are you okay?!” Skywarp's plating twitched against the cables, constant tiny movements. “You've never done that before!”

.:I was scared! So very high up. It was automatic, to prevent a fall:. 

“I had you. I'd _never_ drop you!” Skywarp's field darkened with anger at himself. His wings jerked. “I know that's a last resort thing grounders do. Can you let go?” He flexed his forearms against Mirage's cables. 

The movement sent bizarre and discordant sensations through Mirage; what was normally inside of him was outside of him, all the wrong shape and twisted in all the wrong ways. 

.:Yes, one moment:. 

Mirage slowly, painfully reeled his cabling back in. Streaks of blood snaked across both mechs' plating. As they separated, Mirage's feet touched down on the warm rock of the ledge.

Skywarp shook out his limbs and wings, over and over, as if he had been trapped for a thousand years.

Mirage eased himself down and sat against the cliff wall. He extended his legs before him, flexing his feet. A wave of exhaustion went through his frame. .:What in the name of Primus were you _thinking?:._

“You _love_ aerial views,” said Skywarp. “You love the _sky!_ I wanted the first thing we saw together to be the city from above!” He pounded his fist into the cliff wall. It cracked. Orange dust plumed around them. “Goddammit! Why is everything I do always wrong?!”

.:Please! There's no need for such a display. Sit down:. Mirage shook his head, willing his fuzzy processor to still its incessant humming. .:Sit with me. Talk to me:.

“You're bleeding!”

.:It's okay. It will stop soon:.

“Fuck!!”

Mirage knocked sharply on the plating of his lower leg. .:Skywarp! Sit with me:.

Skywarp finally caught Mirage's tone and pulled his anger in. He thudded down next to Mirage, his wings flush against the cliffside.

.: _Firstly,_ do not warp me anywhere without a warning:.

“I won't. Ever ever ever ever-”

.:Secondly, despite that unpleasant start, I'm glad you're here:. Mirage projected a slight smile. .:There are many things I want to ask you:.

“-ever ever- oh.” Skywarp wrapped his arm around Mirage and pulled him closer. “You have _no idea_ how it feels to see you again.” He let his field out with the intensity of three. It was nervous excitement with a touch of self-directed anger and confusion. Below it all was a boiling pain, desperate for relief.

Mirage flinched away from it. .:I see:.

“How're _you_ doing?”

.:I still don't remember a lot of things, but I know what you mean when you ask _that_ way:. Mirage did something he did so rarely these days: he let out his field fully. It pushed against Skywarp's until they both dissolved at the edges to make room for each other. Mirage was tired, _so tired_ , and still letting go of the burst of fear/discombobulation the midair _vop_ had incited. The constant humming in the back of his processor translated to a mild anxiety in his field. There was a little exasperation, but a lot of hope. 

.:All this time, I had no memory of you and who we were before the war. But recently I had an... an episode, a dire injury. The breaking of my face. And the past came back in pieces. I'm glad you're here now. I've remembered only a few small moments, but I can see that you were _very_ important to me. They tried to erase you away. But now you're here:.

“Hell yeah, I am.” Skywarp stroked Mirage's helm with his thumb. “Who broke your face?” 

Mirage took note of the intimate gesture. None of his instincts were telling him to push Skywarp away. But like Solarray, Skywarp was little more than a stranger, mingling fields not withstanding. And there was something else, something Mirage couldn't _quite_ grasp... .:It was an accident. Someone on the Lost Light. I was angry at first, but I mean her no ill will. She was very frightened. I might have done the same in her place:.

Skywarp frowned. “What happened?”

.:It's... it's complicated. I've been sick for a long time:.

“Yeah. You've always been complicated.” Skywarp gave him a teasing smile. “But always worth it. It'll be okay. The program will fix it. And then you'll be better.”

Mirage sent a sigh through his field. .:It's more complicated than just the mnemosurgery. Do you remember our very first warp?:.

“The dumpster story! I _love_ that story!”

.:Yes, well, our interaction in warpy space... Flatline has determined that first warp was the catalyst for my processor problems, including the issues that cause my nightmares:.

“ _What?!_ The fire nightmares? Do you still have those?”

.:Yes. And... the warp damaged my... I don't recall the details. He has them in a database somewhere. The flash of our outlier energies mixing damaged my processor. The damage spidered out and connected different parts of my mind:.

Skywarp looked at him incredulously. “No...”

.:Some of the damage eventually connected various parts to my holo tech mod. I can project anything I can think of, as you see my face now. But sometimes... sometimes I project things I _don't want_ to project. That's what happened to poor Nautica. I projected a fire nightmare. She experienced it:.

Skywarp grimaced.

.:She meant to knock me out but she... broke my face in the process. The holo tech and reality and dreams are all jumbled up now. And the mnemosurgery made _everything_ worse. Now dreams are memories of a life I have lost. I have... I have a lot of issues. Not just fire _nightmares_ , but waking visions of fire and haunting shadows. They're most often triggered by going invisible:.

“Invisible,” repeated Skywarp. “Warpy space is jumbled up in there, too.” His field flushed with a sick feeling. “And _I_ did that?”

.:No, not all of it. Just the initial processor damage and subsequent elevated levels of gamma-cybrobuteric acid. But you didn't mean to:.

“Does it hurt?”

Mirage let his shoulders slump. .:It is not pleasant:.

Skywarp's cockpit _ting_ 'd against its housing, shaking with the anger building deep in his chest. His wings inched downwards.

.:Please, don't blame yourself. I do not blame you. There's no way you could have known – for either of us to have known – what would happen when we interacted as we did:.

“I fucked you up!!” Skywarp slammed his fists against the ground.

Mirage pushed down on his cockpit firmly, holding it still. .: _Don't._ You did not know. How could you know? I just found out recently, myself:. Mirage eased the pressure on his chest. .:But please know, the symptoms did not surface until the Autobots did their second shadowplay. It was the combination that caused the issues. If they hadn't interfered, I would not have been so very badly damaged:. He brushed orange dust off Skywarp's hands. .:And so I have a great task before me, once I've recovered from my injury. I intend to determine who issued the order for my shadowplay and confront them:.

Skywarp held up his arm. His null ray semi-transformed and peeked up over the top of his plating with a high pitched whine. “I'll help.”

.:Not like that:. Mirage pushed the null ray down. .:Not at first, at least. I want justice:.

“Aww...” 

.:Will you act as a witness? Tell the councils what was done? What you saw?:.

“I sure fucking will,” said Skywarp.

.:Do you have any physical proof you could bring forth?:.

Skywarp brushed his chest. “I... I dunno. Maybe. Depends on what they consider proof. They took everything from our place a long time ago.”

.:Oh:. Mirage reeled in his field before it could flood with disappointment.

Skywarp studied him a moment. “C'mere, c'mon,” he said, patting his thighs. “Sit here.”

.: _Excuse_ me? What am I, a turbofox?:.

“No, I- I didn't mean it that way.” Skywarp's wings rustled in agitation. “We sat together all the time like that.”

.:For all the dreams I've had, or memories that have returned, and for all the comfort they brought, I don't feel quite at ease in person:. Mirage found his attention drawn to the Decepticon badge on Skywarp's chest. He tried to ignore it. .:I mean it in the most respectful way:.

“Yeah. I know.” Skywarp's biolights dimmed. “But did you feel anything this morning?”

.:This morning?:.

Skywarp stared at him. “Yeah... right after you woke up? Don't you remember? It _just_ happened.”

.:Oh...:. Mirage concentrated. The last thing he could remember from the morning was Flatline pulling the wires and cables from his body... and then... a warm embrace that eased the ache in his spark... .:Oh... that _was_ quite comforting:. Slowly, uncertainly, he swung his legs over Skywarp's.

Skywarp smiled. He pulled Mirage onto his lap so they faced each other. “That's not so bad, is it?” He wiped blood from the side of Mirage's helm. “I've been following you ever since I saw you leave the body shop a few weeks ago. I was flying overhead and saw your invisibility. Like a beacon! Like a goddamn lighthouse! I didn't know what to do with myself! I almost fell outta the sky. I hadn't seen you in _so_ long. I didn't know you were here in Iacon! So, I followed you. Every time I saw you, I followed you.”

Mirage thought back to his first days with Flatline. .:Was that you! At the mortuaries?:.

“Yeah. I disabled the silent alarm at one and shot up the autoguard at another. Fuckin' _hate_ those things.” Skywarp side eyed him. “You were there collecting for Flatline? He told me that's how you're paying for your new face.”

.:Yes:.

“Damn. I never woulda guessed that. I was wondering what the fuck you were doing there.”

.:Were you at the mass grave, too?:.

“Yeah. Found you after you got tasered. Once you went visible I could grab you. I wanted to take you back to my room but I knew you needed help. I warped you to the body shop.” Skywarp made a face. “Probably a good thing you don't remember that. Tasers and warping don't mix too good. And when we landed some mechs tried to jump me. But I shot 'em.”

.:Why didn't you stay? Why didn't you come back for me in the meantime?:.

“Galvatron.” 

Skywarp didn't elucidate. Puzzlement flashed through Mirage's field. .:...and? What about him?:.

“He's, uh.” Skywarp rubbed his shoulder. There was a slight dent there. “Not as _forgiving_ of absences as Megatron was. I got away when I could. And, I guess you could say, I finally quit last night.”

.:You quit being a Decepticon?:.

“No. Just working for _him_.”

.:Oh. What will he do to you now?:.

Skywarp grinned. “I really don't fucking care.”

.:I see:. Mirage glanced at the sky as if he expected a Decepticon warship to appear at that very moment. .:I didn't know what happened at the morgues. I thought you were a hallucination:. He shuddered.

“ _Hallucination?_ Nah,” said Skywarp. He pulled Mirage into a tight embrace. His dark plating was warm from the sun and Mirage felt his spark turning in his chest. “Just watchin' your back.”

.:Thank you:. This close, Skywarp's wings were within reach. Mirage wondered what they felt like. He'd seen many wings in his life. But, as far as he knew, had touched very few. .:Tell me what happened last time we saw each other:.

The wing trembled beneath his fingertips. 

.:I want to remember _everything_ :.

Skywarp groaned. “The last time, like way back?”

.:Yes!:.

“It's, uh, not a nice story. I dunno how much you remember. It might not make sense.”

.:Please?:.

Skywarp sighed.

~~

Halfway through the war, Megatron had found a shitty organic planet. He hated it. Once we landed, I hated it. I had to blast and remove all the gross organic stuff to make a clearing. We were in the middle of setting up our metalliterraforming equipment when you Autobots arrived. Of course, Prime wanted to butt into our business. 

When I saw you sneaking around during battle, I nearly glitched out! The blinding light of your invisibility! I hadn't seen you in almost two million years! My _absolute_ shock- I warped right on top of Thundercracker. Pissed him off real good. I broke formation and followed you, but you got away. Thundercracker smacked me around for it later.

But something in you must have recognized me.

Imagine my shock when I heard your voice that night on our private frequency! A frequency that hadn't sounded for me in two million years. You were scared. Hyperventilating. You _begged_ to see me. You said you didn't know what was going on. 

I thought it was a trap. I thought I should tell Soundwave, or at least Thundercracker, that you contacted me. But you were so _scared_ , so confused. The old wounds in my spark pulsed at the sound of your voice. 

I agreed to meet you where you wanted to meet but I promised myself I wouldn't fall for you again. It hurt too much the first time. We met in some little cave at the top of a mountain. I powered up my null rays, braced myself for an ambush. But when I appeared, you ran into my arms, _crying_ , your field wild with confusion.

I was stunned. I had no idea what to say. The usual opening lines for battle didn't apply. “Uh... What's going on?” I lifted your chin, looked into your eyes. I almost choked. It was _you._ From when we were _us_.

“I don't know,” you said. “I woke up and I was with all these people. And I know them! I know their names, I know their faces. I know what they do. But I don't know _why_ I know. I don't remember how I got here. I look at my side and I see this.” You touched the gun at your waist. “And I don't know why I know how to use it, but I do. I've never shot a gun before in my life! But I have shot a gun. Many times.”

“Yeah, you've shot at _me!_ I... I'm super confused by this... you know we're at war, right?”

“I do! I think. But I don't know why.” You touched both our chests, where our badges were. “Skywarp! Why are we at war? Why aren't we on the same side?”

I pulled you close and oh my god... my lines flooded with _want_. I'd spent the last two million years pushing the memories of you away, pushing against that pain. But I held you and it was like no time had passed at all, like you had never left. You fit in my arms just like you always had. “You don't remember anything?”

“I remember... we... we were together, weren't we? I woke up and I knew this frequency. I knew if I called, you would answer. I knew I needed to see you, even though I wasn't sure who you were.”

“You left me,” I said. “A long time ago. Right before the war. You never said why. You never, _ever_ said why. I tried to talk to you, but you pushed me away.”

“I don't remember that! I don't remember any of that. I remember... everything. And nothing. It's all so confusing!”

I held you while you cried and said things that didn't make any sense. I was just happy you were letting me touch you again. “Listen,” I said, interrupting you. “We have to be really, _really_ careful about this. Meeting up. I want to see you. I _need_ to see you. But we have to be careful.”

“Don't make me go back to them,” you cried. “Don't. They'll do something to me, I just know it. Why can't I remember?!”

“I dunno. But we only got two options if you wanna abandon rank,” I said. “One, we both run away and hide in the wilderness on this mudball until we can steal or build a shuttle to get the hell outta here, or two, you join the Decepticons. They'll be happy to have you, trust me.”

“I don't want to join anything! I just want to leave!”

_.:“Skywarp! Where are you? Get back to the ship immediately!”:._

“Shit,” I said. “Megatron's calling. I gotta go. Let's meet again. Okay? You comm me and we'll meet back here. Middle of the night. Whatever.”

“Okay,” you said. “Wait.”

“What?”

You reached up and you grabbed my face and you kissed me. The cave around us disappeared. The world disappeared. There was nothing but you and me and the energy between us. My spark spun out and ignited my lines. I was lost to you again.

~

We had four good meet ups. Each time you were more lucid, you remembered more, you were less upset. It was dangerous- I had to lie to everyone about where I was going. I don't know what you did to get away. I didn't care. I just wanted _you_ , all of you. For the first three meet ups, I had you every way we could manage it. And you had me.

And I felt better than I'd ever felt before.

The fourth meeting, you were exhausted. You were sleeping! I found you on the cave floor. I woke you up. “Why didn't you reschedule?”

“I had to see you,” you said, climbing into my lap. You pushed me down so we were lying together. You curled between my alt mode pieces, just like we used to. Your exhaustion pulsed through your field. “I had to... see you... it's your turn to pick the night's activity.”

Even though my lines were on fire- I'd been thinking about you all day- I couldn't ask you to do what I wanted. You were _so_ tired. “Let's just rest together,” I said. “I'll pick next time.”

You smiled, that beautiful, tired smile, and curled up with me. I held you tight, I couldn't sleep, myself. I just watched you, touched your frame- the places where your décor used to be, the biolights and seams of your updated body. The glass spots that I knew were hidden, did you still have them all? I had found a few... 

I held you until the sun came up and we were really pushing our luck. I held you until the very last moment, before we _had_ to depart. You didn't even have time to brush my cheap black paint from your thighs.

~

Our next meeting – our _last_ meeting - as soon as I arrived, I knew something was wrong. You were waiting there, half in shadow, staring at me the way Megatron stares at organics. Your biolights were thin. Your was field gone.

“What's wrong?” I asked, reaching for you.

Fast as lightning, your arm came up and the barrel of your gun blocked your face.

“Mirage?! What's going on?”

“He doesn't want to see you anymore.” Another Autobot, a black and white, stepped out from behind you. I think his name was Prowl.

“Fuck off!”

“Mirage, do you know this mech?” he asked.

“No,” you said. So quickly, so mechanically. You didn't even think twice.

My jaw dropped. My lines ran cold. “Mirage, you know me. You _know_ me! We were at the Aca-”

“This Decepticon is _obsessed_ with you,” said Prowl. 

“I see,” you said. “What a foolish creature he is.”

I stepped forward, my field expanding out in hurt and confusion. How could you have turned cold on me again?? But you tilted that gun, pointed it at my cockpit.

“Don't move,” said Prowl.

“Mirage,” I said, looking into your eyes. There was nothing there- none of your calm, your curiosity, your beauty, not even your pain. Your field was drawn so close I could not find it. It felt like you – who you _really_ were – were gone. There was nothing in your eyes except loathing. 

You were not Mirage.

“What did you _do_ to him!”

“Shoot him,” said Prowl.

Laser fire slammed into me. Shattered my left helm vent and punctured my wing. I didn't stick around to see what would happen next. I warped out of there. 

My spark felt like it had been ripped out and _extinguished_. Again.

~~

.:So, it _was_ Prowl. He made me shoot you:. Mirage's throat tightened around its protective caps. .:That's awful:.

“It was. It was _fucking_ awful.” Skywarp's field flared with pain. “That was the last time we spoke. Do you remember it now?” 

.:I remember when I returned to the Ark-8 after the fourth meeting, Prowl and Blaster stopped me. Prowl asked where I had been. I couldn't tell him. But he knew something was going on. The black flecks on my frame... it was your paint. Prowl, he, they... they brought me to someone. I can't remember who. But it must have been a mnemosurgeon. Yes. They erased you away:.

“Again. That was the second time.”

Mirage nodded. 

“Before the war started and the Autobots got you, we lived together.” Skywarp shuffled his wings. “Do you remember the Academy? We met there.”

.:Yes, that I do remember:.

Skywarp smiled. “When you started doing freelance you could afford a place for us. We moved out. Got our own little apartment. Best time of my life! Do you remember our place?”

.:I think I remember it:. Recent dreams flitted through Mirage's mind. .:There was a view of an arch? A bridge?:.

“Yeah, the Bridge of Aureaon. It was in the Crystal Gardens. You picked that apartment cuz you wanted a view of it from the window. You could see it lit up at night. Sometimes they'd turn the force field off and it'd sparkle and shine.”

.:Oh, that sounds beautiful:.

“It was. You liked to look down at the city while I played priest.” Skywarp licked his lips. “Oblectamentum.” 

A flood of embarrassment came through Mirage's field. He jolted away from Skywarp. .:Oh, I-:.

“Don't be embarrassed! You told me about _all_ that cult shit. And you _loved_ what we did with those rites. We changed them to be _ours_.” Skywarp gripped him tighter. “We shared everything. That's why it hurt so bad. I came home one night and you were gone. All your stuff- gone. All your little crystals, your bottles of fancy oil: gone. No note, no explanation. _Nothing._ Not a single picture of us together left on the walls. No trace of you- of _us!_ I comm'd you, no reply. I got real worried! I went everywhere, searched frantically _everywhere_. I finally found you at that stupid hospital you worked at.”

.:The New Institute?:.

“Maybe? I don't think it said that on the sign. But I found you there. You were _cold_. You pretended not to know who I was. And you were wearing the Autobrand! I was shocked, cuz you always said you'd never join either side. I tried to talk to you, but you had me kicked out. My spark... it felt like part of me _died_.”

.:Ohh...:. Mirage touched his chest.

“I tried a buncha times to contact you, but you ignored me... until one day you fired at me! I didn't even know you had a gun! You called me 'Decepticon' like I was some generic. It hurts just thinking about it.” Skywarp shook his head. “Both times. Fuckin' hurts.”

Mirage's body shuddered as he processed this. .:I'm slowly remembering. The procedure the med bed did last night- it is supposed to help me remember as I go. It's working. It's... stressful:.

Skywarp held him until he was still again. “That was the first time they axed your brain. Right before the war, to get you to join their side. Then again, halfway through, on that planet, cuz the mnemosurgery was wearing off and I was there, reminding you. And now it's been another two million years, and it's wearing off again. That's why you're remembering.”

.:I thought it was because my face broke:.

“I'm sure that didn't help. It was a damn good face.” Skywarp's field oozed pain. “If they try to needle you a third time, I will _rip them all apart._ ”

Mirage felt the ferocity of the statement down to his spark. It mingled with the queasy feeling there. .:This is awful. This feels awful. I could never be a Decepticon, but I can't stomach the idea of my Autobot colleagues doing this to me:. Mirage pushed the uneasy feelings away. .:And it hurt you, too! I can't imagine how it must have felt to come home to an empty house... and I never gave you an explanation. I'm so sorry:.

“Don't apologize for those fuckers. Autobots are the _worst._ ” 

Mirage glanced at Skywarp's Decepticon badge again. Surely, the Autobots had done terrible things, but they weren't the _worst_. Mirage thought the Decepticons still held that title.

But he felt it would be unwise to state that particular opinion at the moment. Or, at the very least, very rude.

.:Would you mind if I had something to drink?:. Mirage sent, changing the subject. He pulled a can and the adaptor from his subspace compartment. .:The program in my processor is eating up a lot of energy:.

“Oh, yeah. No problem.”

Skywarp watched with interest as Mirage flicked his face off, unfolded his adaptor, and drank.

“Whoa, so that's how you do it. I was wondering.”

.:Yes. Feeding was very difficult until Flatline gave me this adaptor:. Mirage finished and removed it from his intake. .:I cannot wait to get my face back:.

“Me either.” Skywarp peered into his shadowed helm. “God, that's weird. I can see the backs of your eyes. I could reach in and kiss your brain.”

.:I suppose. That would be a monumentally bizarre thing to do. Possibly monstrous:.

Skywarp grinned and pulled Mirage closer, pursing his lips.

.:No!:.

“I ain't gonna kiss your brain.” Skywarp laughed. He kissed Mirage's crest. “There. How's that.”

.:That is... fine:.

“Just fine?”

.:It's... yes, fine:. 

“Oh.”

Mirage subspaced the adaptor and empty can. He felt a little bit better, more awake. .:I recently remembered our excursion to the Crystal Gardens. What a _rapturous_ time we had. I adore the memory. Can you tell me a favorite memory of yours?:.

“One time I found a fuckin' hot mech in a dumpster.”

.:I already know that one!:.

“I didn't say it was you!”

Mirage flashed up an unamused face long enough for Skywarp to laugh.

“I mean, technically it's true. I found a mech on fire in a dumpster once. I might've put the fire in there, though. And the mech.”

.:Ugh. Let us not speak of fire:.

“Oh... right. Okay. Yeah. Do you remember when me and Thundercracker got our first Seeker bodies?”

.:Not... not really:.

Skywarp leaned back against the cliff wall. “It was awful. The transplant tech was still new and neither of us were the right spark type for the donated energon and parts. We were in a lotta pain. You let Thundercracker stay at our place for the recovery cuz he didn't have anyone to help him. You took care of both of us.”

.:I don't remember that at all:.

“Heh. Maybe that's a good thing. We were making _so_ much noise- moaning and groaning like an entire fucking Intensive Care ward- and so many docs came for house calls. They were in and out, in and out, constantly. Some neighbor called security sayin' strange mechs were going into our apartment blastin' weird fields at all hours and that you were operating a brothel.”

.:What?!:.

“Yup. So after we got better I got some stupid pics of me and Thundercracker in sexy poses in the warehouse and made fake ads. Got 'em printed on that glossy stock. They said 'Mirage's Brothel' across the top in gold script.” 

_.:What?!:._

Skywarp laughed, his field brightening and overtaking Mirage's for a moment. “You were _so_ mad! It was supposed to be a one-off joke. But some of the other guys thought it was great and soon we had a set. The whole ugly delivery crew, posing seductively on dirty shipping crates with our paperwork raining down like it was shanix. And all of 'em said 'Mirage's Brothel.' It was _hilarious_. You were _so mad_. You made a big deal about tossing them all out, but I found one of me you'd saved. You'd hidden it in your maintenance kit drawer.”

Mirage shook his head, mirth and disbelief mingling in his field. .:I can't believe it. And yet...:.

“I was surprised you were so mad, to be honest. By then you had a sense of humor. You even pranked me back for that one.”

.:I can't say for certain.: sent Mirage. .:But perhaps, given my profession, I was concerned about physical evidence linking us together:.

“Oh,” said Skywarp. “That makes sense. Whenever we went out, you always made sure we arrived and left separately. We usually wore disguises. I thought it was overkill, but in retrospect... damn.” He shook his head. “Some of the disguises were fun, though.”

.:Did I often prank you? I don't remember that at all. What did I do?:.

“Eh, not too often. Cuz you knew I'd always get you back, bigger and worser.” Skywarp grinned. “For that one, you said since I wanted to be in a brothel so bad, we'd act it out. You got some kinda oil and went to town all over me til my thighs glitched out. Next day, I'm hobbling at the warehouse and all the guys start whistling at me and slapping me. The oil had dried and reacted to the sunlight and there were your handprints and kisses all over my frame. _All_ over. And it wouldn't wash off in the showers. Heh.” Skywarp's wings trembled. “But I was pretty proud of it to be honest. I strutted it out like I owned it. Cuz I did.” 

.:I can't... I can't imagine myself doing that. Yet, it is amusing. And a good revenge:.

“Heh, yeah. You were lots of fun.” Skywarp squeezed his waist. Mirage twitched. “We used to joke that between us a medic could only scrape up enough normal for half a mech.”

.:It's strange. The memories that have returned... they're not really jocular. They're more domestic in nature. Or... sensual:.

Skywarp raised an ocular ridge. “Do you remember our painting sessions?”

.:Painting sessions? I remember the first one. How I finally saw my own face properly:.

“Yeah? Not the monthly ones after that?” 

Mirage shook his head. 

“Every month you had me strip the paint off your face so I could redo it fresh.” Skywarp's field thickened. “And while your face was bare I'd fuck you hard so I could see what Primus had to say that day.”

.:Oh:. To Mirage's surprise, his lines warmed. 

Skywarp ran a finger up the glass in Mirage's chest.

.:Oh! Oh that feels good. But:. Mirage caught his hand. .:I do not feel... in my current state... I don't...:. _I don't know you,_ he thought.

“Not now?”

.:Not now:.

“Okay.” 

They sat together quietly for a while, letting their fields mingle at the edges and thinking their own private thoughts. Slowly- so slowly and gently that Mirage didn't register it at first- Skywarp traced the small seams and details of his body. His field occasionally surged out in powerful, happy waves, engulfing Mirage and then receding.

Mirage's wariness waned and waxed. The physical touch felt very nice, but something about the whole situation still gnawed at him.

.:You are very affectionate:.

“We both are.” Skywarp paused his touches. “Does it bother you?”

.:I don't know. It is pleasant. But I do not know you:.

“Something inside you does. You'll remember soon. You'll feel it.”

.:I suppose. I wish it would hurry up. I dislike being caught between dreams and your retellings:.

“You _will_ remember. You will.” Skywarp swept his hands across Mirage's chest. “It's all in there. It's gotta be.” 

And at that, Mirage realized why Skywarp held him so tightly, why he ran his hands across his frame constantly, as if assuring himself he was really there.

Skywarp was afraid of losing him again.

Mirage couldn't help but feel pity for the mech. They had lived together, sure. And the memories were _very_ lovely. But it _had_ been a very long time ago. If four millions years on opposite sides of a war hadn't dulled the flame Skywarp felt...

...than perhaps what they had shared was even more meaningful than Mirage had initially thought.

.:We were so close. It seems that we... we were so _very_ close:.

Skywarp nodded.

.:Did we ever... bare our sparks?:.

Skywarp's hands stopped their gentle strokes. His face twisted. For a moment Mirage thought maybe he had overstepped some bounds. It was a private thing, after all. The _most_ private. But then bitter sadness came through Skywarp's field.

“Fuck, that hurts to hear. Yeah, we did. I wish you remembered it.” Skywarp's field curled around in pain until he managed to draw it in. “It, uh... it meant a lot to me.”

.:Oh:. A chill ran through Mirage. He hadn't done that with any of the other mechs he had delighted in. .:I don't remember it. I'm sorry:.

“Me too.” Skywarp bowed his head. His wings scraped across the cliff face as they sagged.

.:What was... what were we like? Together?:.

“Happy. Supportive. Hardly ever argued. You kept me outta trouble and I kept you outta your shell. Most of the time we were just getting by and we each had our own stresses from work and shit but... You've heard of the honeymoon phase?”

Mirage nodded.

“Ours never ended. Until...” He looked away.

.:I see:. Mirage touched one of the metal bands wrapped around the glass of Skywarp's cockpit. .:Is that what this is? All this pain I feel in your field? Sparkbreak?:.

“I dunno what else it could be.”

.:How do you _live with_ it?:.

“I punch a lotta guys.”

.:Surely the emotional pain of our separation would have eased with time. But your field has bled this entire morning. Why does it hurt so much for you?:.

Skywarp looked at him. “You've asked me this before. I don't know. All I know is, I didn't know it hurt until I met you, and then after I met you, it hurt unless I was with you.” Skywarp put a hand over his spark and his biolights flared. “I'd get it if the Academy sent me away for a few days. But it'd go away when I got home. It's not going away as fast as it used to, though. I dunno why...”

.: _It didn't hurt until I met you_ :. repeated Mirage. .:Like my processor:.

“What?”

.:That flash hurt you, too. It must have linked us somehow, if I'm the reason for you not to feel pain. Flatline said my vitals are more stable when I talk about you:. Mirage touched Skywarp's chin. .:There's something about proximity, for us, that makes us more stable. I suppose the only positive of the shadowplay was that I was spared the sparkache of our separation:.

Skywarp hugged him. “I'm glad. It's awful. It's the worst thing I've ever felt. And I've felt some shit.”

Skywarp's field was so powerful, Mirage struggled to push its pain away. The conversation was too heavy and mournful. Mirage scrambled for another topic, something to distract Skywarp with. .:Embedded yourself in a quantum engine once, I heard:.

Skywarp's eyes unfocused. “Oh, yeah.”

.:Why did you do that?:.

“I didn't _mean_ to,” said Skywarp. “After you shot me in the cave, I warped back to base. I was so hurt, so _angry_ , I trashed the place. Beat up four guys bigger than me at once, like I was fulla nuke. I think I even punched Megatron. He sent me to _The Irradion_ to calm down. Flatline was there. He killswitched me upon arrival. When it wore off, I couldn't warp. I thought I was broken. I thought he did an experiment on me and _broke_ me. I forced it, couldn't control it, and warped into this... _room_.”

Skywarp's field shook. Mirage braced himself, knowing what was coming next.

“It was supposed to be the teleporter room. But it was- Mirage it was _sick_. I mean, it wasn't _really_ , it was just mechs melted all over the place. But there were... there were blue and white ones in there. And I thought- for a second I thought Megatron had somehow found out and had brought _you_ there and melted you as a punishment. But I- I looked closer and there was no glass. Your glass melts hotter than metal. I woulda found the- the pieces. You weren't there. But I was still shocked. I tried warping out and glitched and was drawn into the quantum engine.”

A shiver of horror went through Mirage's field. .:That must have been awful to see. Why were you glitching?:.

“The killswitch hadn't worn off yet. It wears off unevenly. But I didn't know that. I just wanted to get the hell outta there.”

.:What was it like to be stuck in a quantum engine?:.

Skywarp leaned back. “Hard to remember now. And hard to put in words. I can relate it to other warp stuff, but you don't have context for that anyway. I guess it's kinda like being stuck in a waterfall.” He tapped Mirage's thighs with a steady beat. “Water pounding down on you all the time, moving around you all the time, but you're stuck in one spot, forced to experience it all. But it's not water. It's the... the _realness_ of spacetime, the _thickness_ of it. Several dimensions' worth, cuz quantum stuff always pinches those things together.”

.:Wow:.

“That's how I figured out that you'd been mnemosurgeried,” said Skywarp. He shook his head. “I was stuck in Flatline's damn med bay for _days_ after they dug me out. And the only thing I had to stare at was one of Megatron's quotes hung up on a poster. It was about how we're nothing but our minds and our might. It made me think, wait a minute, what was going on inside Mirage's processor? What could've made him change like that? Cuz up until Prowl opened his mouth, I really did think you had made the decision to leave me, before the war. I didn't understand it, but I thought it was your own. But Prowl, the way he said it. The way you _responded,_ automatically, like you were programmed. And then it hit me- Decepticons don't have mnemosurgeons, but I'd heard of them. It all clicked. You _weren't_ yourself, and hadn't been, since before the war. They'd fucked you up- told you to leave me. So they'd have their own perfect spy.”

.:Why didn't you ever... come for me? Try to get me back?:.

“You _shot_ me. Point blank.” Skywarp shook his head sadly. “I don't think you woulda believed me, no matter what I said. And I didn't see you again much after that, anyway. The very _first_ time we met in battle, I went outta my mind. Thundercracker... I don't know what he did, but... After that, whenever we encountered your group, I'd get assigned elsewhere. If I tried to join the ambush team so I could see you, he'd pick a fight with me. Hand to hand, with no warps, he's faster than me. He'd really bash me in good, til Starscream got pissed. Thundercracker was one of the few who knew about us. Since he was at the Academy, too.” Skywarp sighed. “Thundercracker thought he was doing the right thing for me. Maybe he was.”

Mirage nodded. .:I don't think I would have believed you, either...:. Mirage recalled one of his dreams from the morning, saturated in heat and wild fields. .:Were we... very close to Thundercracker? While at the Academy?:.

Skywarp grinned at him. “You could say that. He was your favorite. After me, of course.” He licked his lips. “You always wanted to see more of him and he sure liked you. But he _hates_ my field. He didn't play too often.”

.:Oh:. Mirage had very clear memories of fighting Thundercracker during the war. .:I... that's... I don't know how to grasp that in my mind. I remember many skirmishes with him on various worlds:. Mirage glanced at Skywarp's Decepticon badge again. Cross-faction intimacy had been a taboo and he had never ever entertained the thought of embracing it during the war. .:He shot at me once. Missed, but half my torso peeled back from the heat of the blast. My spark chamber was exposed and I was very vulnerable. He would've killed me if Jazz hadn't returned fire. And yet he had delighted in me? Thundercracker would've remembered that, of course, whereas I did not:. Various emotions, too quick and disjointed for Skywarp to place, passed through Mirage's field. .:It's just _bizarre!_ :. 

“Yeah. I think he thought it was weird, too.” Skywarp rested his hands on Mirage's thighs. “Hell, maybe that's part of why he left the Decepticons. He did, you know.”

.:I didn't know:.

“To his credit, he didn't tell anyone about us. Megatron never knew. Which is... really good.” Skywarp squinted one eye. “Flatline said your vitals are better when you're with me?”

.:Yes:.

Skywarp frowned. “You're with me now. How come it still hurts?”

.:What do you mean? I am not hurt:.

“Not you. Me. Why does it still hurt?”

Mirage startled as Skywarp let out more of his field, a barrage of pain far stronger than he would have guessed. .:I don't know. Maybe the damage has been done, like my processor. It's permanent.”

Skywarp groaned and pulled his field in. “I don't want to feel this way anymore.” He grabbed Mirage's hand and kissed it. “Especially if I'm with you.”

.:Perhaps Flatline can help:.

“ _Ugh_. He'll wanna scan me. Probe me. Open me up. I don't want that!”

.:But maybe he can help! He's helping me:.

“Uuuuugggghhhh...”

.:Please, give it a thought. He truly has done everything in his power to help me. He even accommodated me when I could no longer fulfill the initial conditions of our agreement:. Mirage touched Skywarp's chest. .:Flatline said Decepticons make their badges from their spark chambers. Does your spark chamber have holes in it, too?:.

“Hell no,” said Skywarp. “After what the Academy did? I never let anyone touch me there again. When the Decepticon medic told me he was gonna take some pieces out, I told him I'd do it myself.” Skywarp pointed to his badge. “I turned away from him, opened my chest, and ripped out the wingtip I had in there. Closed my chest, turned back around, and his facemask was on the floor. Hah!” Skywarp laughed. “One of the few times I ever disobeyed an order, to be honest. No one ever suspected anything. They thought I was badass enough to rip out a chunk of my own spark chamber.”

.:Clever:. Mirage traced the badge with a finger. It was rounded and pitted from years and years of wear.

“You guys didn't do that?”

.:Autobots?:. Mirage touched his own badge. Its red paint was still scored with scratches. .:No, no. Never. Random scraps were used. Shaped and painted:.

“You still have your wingtip, right?”

.:No. It was taken from me:.

Skywarp's field darkened. “What about the blood drop?”

.:The _what?_ :.

“Fuck!” Skywarp's wings thudded against the cliff face. “What did they _leave_ you?”

.:Memories from the temple. Memories from the war. All my memories. Except you:.

“Fuckers.”

.:The very same:. Mirage touched Skywarp's face. He thought of the night he saw Flatline's sparklight on his wall and the mourning sounds he had made. .:I'm glad you don't have holes in your spark chamber:.

“Pff, yeah. Me too.”

.:I think you would be very uncomfortable:.

“Yeah. But it's fine,” said Skywarp. He kissed Mirage's hand. “I have everything I need now.”

Despite the undercurrent of weirdness to the whole situation, that felt flattering. A smile came through Mirage's field. .:What was the blood drop?:.

“My gift to you after... _after_. You know. You give a gift.”

.:Oh:. For those who didn't employ the conjunx ceremony, as apparently he and Skywarp hadn't, spark-baring traditionally was followed by gift giving. .:I'm so sorry I don't remember:.

“It's not your fault.”

.:Were you opposed to the conjunx ceremony?:.

Skywarp blinked. “No. _You_ were. You said you hadn't been raised with it, so it didn't mean anything to you. But you loved the idea of spark-baring, cuz it's in all the old plays you read over and over. So after it happened we... we kinda cobbled together something from that.” Skywarp shifted uncomfortably. “It's not something we _talked_ about. We just did it.”

.:Oh:. Mirage had a million questions about the spark-baring. How far along into their relationship had it happened? Who did it first? What prompted it? But Skywarp looked so miserable that Mirage hadn't remembered, he didn't want to press. .:What _was_ the blood drop?:. he asked gently.

“A crystal I got special-made for you. The color of my biolights.” Skywarp flashed them. “Cuz you said... you said they enchanted you from the very beginning. And you always loved crystals. And the garden, and the- our first time there.”

.:Oh. It sounds lovely. I think I saw it in a dream, once:.

Skywarp nodded. 

.:What did I give you?:.

Skywarp winced. He studied Mirage for a long moment. Then, with a grating sound, the left half of his chest swung open. 

Mirage leaned forward.

The inside of Skywarp's chest was covered in splotches of flaking, silvery paint and lined with little _things_ \- pieces of metal and glass, decorative beads, thin ribbons of tarnished silver and misshapen gold that had been soldered in. A lifetime of memories that Mirage was sure he had contributed to. But could not remember.

Skywarp felt around the inside of his chest until his fingers brushed a dark, pyramidal shape. “There,” he said. “That.”

.:What is it?:.

“An eternal light,” said Skywarp. “Turns out they don't stay lit up for eternity. You gotta fill 'em up every few million years. But... the last time it went out, I didn't feel like filling it up again.”

.:Oh:. Mirage reached into his chest and touched the eternal light. He felt curling indents on its triangular facets. His fingertip caught in a slit and the pyramid popped off the wall of Skywarp's chest. .:Oh!:. A faint wave of horror flashed through his field. .:Did I break it?:.

“Nah,” said Skywarp, taking it from him. “You gotta take it out to refill it. It clicks back in.” He held the eternal light up and Mirage realized the indents were hand-carved script. Skywarp sighed, tilting it back and forth. The script flashed in the sun. “Do you remember what you called me?”

.:'Darling?' That's the word I've heard in the memories that have come back:.

Skywarp pressed the eternal light into Mirage's palm. “Those were old memories.”

.:Oh... I think I have seen this object in a dream!:. Mirage raised the pyramid to his eyes and read. .:This is Old Cybertronian!:.

“Yes.”

.:'Beloved':.

“Yes.”

.:Oh:. The hum in the back of Mirage's processor intensified. The fuzzy disorientation in his mind increased. His head ached. He went to give the eternal light back, but Skywarp pushed it away.

“Toss it.” 

.:What? Why?:.

“Because if you don't remember giving it to me, than I don't deserve to have it.” Skywarp shook his head. “Do you remember our private frequency?”

.:No:.

Skywarp jutted his chin at the eternal light. “It's meaningless now.”

.:It had meaning at one point, though:.

Skywarp looked at him sadly. “If you don't remember me, than there's no way you can love me right now.”

Mirage was silent.

“Right?”

.:I don't... I don't really know you. There have been so many years we were apart, and so many years that were erased. How _could_ I love you?:. 

“Yeah.” Skywarp looked away. “Just throw the thing over the cliff.”

.:I think it deserves a bit more respect than that. After all, if I gave it to you, it must have great worth:.

“It doesn't matter. You don't even have the blood drop anymore. They went together.” Skywarp placed the back of one hand against the palm of the other. “They're supposed to be together. I thought... I dunno. _When_ I thought about it, I always figured you still had the blood drop.” He looked away. “That was probably stupid of me to think.”

Mirage touched the little pyramid's sides. He thought of Solarray holding its holo facsimile, proclaiming its importance. Unease crept through his spark. .:Are you certain?:.

“Yeah. Throw it over the cliff. I can't.”

.:Are you _sure?:._

Skywarp made a hurt sound and turned away from him, static brewing in his eyes.

Mirage hesitated. Then he threw the little pyramid off the cliffside. It glinted as it tumbled and spun. Skywarp buried his face in his hands. The eternal light fell so far, it didn't make a sound when it hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;n;


	20. SkyWaRP + MiRaGE

Thundercracker sat at the edge of Mirage's bed. A semi-circle of data pads fanned out behind him, some lost in the folds of the blankets. The Academy had sent Skywarp away for a few days, so he and Mirage were keeping each other company, chatting about their mutual interest. “Why do you like those _old_ stories so much?” 

“They're what I grew up with. I loved reading them.”

“What, in dumpster land?”

Mirage gave him a wry smile. Neither he nor Skywarp had ever elucidated his origins, so their friends had taken to concocting their own increasingly elaborate backstories for him. So far Mirage had been: a reanimated racer shell stuffed with orphan boat coding; the only spark that had ever been found alone in its hot spot (which was a dumpster); a CC'd mech named Cranknuts who'd murdered a Forged mech and taken his identity; a Noble helicopter who'd lost his rotors in a duel over spilled breakfast energon; and a triple changer who refused to tell everyone what his third mode was and couldn't show it anyway because he could only transform into it when he was invisible. Mirage never corrected them. “Yes. In dumpster land.”

“Heh.” Thundercracker poked at a data pad. “But they're so _boring._ And old-fashioned.”

Mirage quirked an ocular ridge. “The greatest stories are timeless. If I rewrote my favorites in the modern language, I am certain you would adore them, as well.”

“What's your favorite one about?”

“ _Circuitous Designs,_ a love story. Well, a play. I have both read it and seen it performed many times. Two mechs who fall in love. Beautiful, perfect love.”

“Meh.” Thundercracker squinted. “What's the conflict?”

“Hmm?”

“The conflict. You can't have a story without a conflict. Or else it's uninteresting.”

“Says who? What more could you want than _perfect_ love?” Mirage sat forward in his chair. “There is no conflict. Why would you _want_ to fight?”

“Cuz it's exciting!” Thundercracker shook his head. “And the audience- why should they care about someone else's love? What's supposed to hook them in?”

Mirage gaped at him. “The language! _The poetry!_ The naked beauty of their emotion translated into words! Why, it was the most gripping thing I had _ever_ read when I was in the- dumpster land.”

“But... _why?_ It sounds like nothing actually _happens_ except fancy words.”

“Because I-” Mirage stopped himself. He touched his cheek, which only a few months ago had been covered with a veil. _Because I was told I belonged only to Primus. None would ever bare their spark to me._ “Because it spoke of something I could never have, but which I always wondered about. Love is presented in this beautiful way- absent of pain and suffering. Absent of orders and labors. It is pure, bathed in light.”

~~

Mirage nodded awake. He was cold and cramped. His joints were dusty. He groaned inwardly. Where was he? This wasn't the med bed...

Mirage pushed himself up and stared at the purple and silver chest before him. Confusion swept through his field. He shook his head.

Oh, right.

Skywarp.

He must have fallen asleep as they were talking. Now the sun was almost down, casting orangey light across the cliff face. Skywarp's legs were bent up behind him, shielding him from the evening wind. 

Skywarp smiled at him.

.:Did Flatline comm yet?:.

The smile faltered. “No.” Skywarp eased his legs down and Mirage stretched. “You okay?”

.:Yes, thank you:.

Skywarp had carved “ **SkyWaRP** ” into the rock beside them. Mirage had slept long enough for Skywarp to embellish his name with little stars and spark symbols and bullets and clenched fists. And Autobot symbols with the eyes X'd out.

.:I think we should go back:.

“Okay. I'll take you back.” 

Mirage went to stand but Skywarp grabbed his arm. “Wait.”

.:What?:.

Skywarp reset his vocalizer. “I was thinkin', while you were sleeping. Okay, you know I'm not always good with words. But... but it's gotta still be in you.”

Mirage stared at him.

“It's _gotta_ be in there,” said Skywarp. “It came back last time and it'll come back this time. All I'm asking is that you... let it. Give it a chance, okay? What you said earlier... you didn't say that last time. It... it hurt to hear. It...” Skywarp glanced away. “It scared me. Give yourself time to remember.”

Mirage nodded. .:I told you I want to remember everything. It is true:.

“Good.”

.:It's just... all very weird. I'm not... completely comfortable with the entire thing:.

“That's okay. I get it.” Skywarp motioned for Mirage to get up so he could stand. “I just want you to know...”

Mirage waited.

Skywarp's wings strained outwards. His biolights flashed with a stress pattern.

.:Yes? What is it?:.

Skywarp reset his vocalizer again. “That I'll wait however long you need. I ain't going nowhere.”

Mirage nodded. Skywarp wrapped his arms around him. Just before they disappeared, Mirage caught sight of the rest of the carvings Skywarp had made in the rock. He'd only seen half before. Ringed with stars and sparks and symbols of war was “ **SkyWaRP + MiRaGE** ”

~~

They materialized outside the body shop but the door wouldn't open. Mirage waved and waved at it. .:Flatline attuned my signature to the door. It should unlock for me...:.

“Easy fix.” Skywarp shrugged and teleported them inside.

The curtain to the patient alcove was wide open. Flatline lay on the med bed, lines and wires connected to his torso. Quickmix stood next to him, rubbing a dent in his face mask. The light monitors hovered around them. The air was heavy with pain.

Mirage pulled himself from Skywarp's arms and ran over to the bed. .:Oh! Flatline, are you alright?:.

“Hah! What're _you_ doing on there?” Skywarp said. “Lazy! Get up.”

“Hey, Shadow Starscream!” Quickmix snapped. “Shut up!”

“Make me,” snarled Skywarp.

Flatline moaned. He opened one eye. He glanced at the monitors above him, then caught sight of Mirage. His finials jumped up. “What the hell happened to you?!”

.:Huh? Oh, I had a cable-height reaction...:. Mirage brushed the blood off his plating hastily.

Flatline heaved himself up to a sitting position. “OW. Fuck. Ow.” He pointed at Skywarp. “You! I leave you alone with him for one day and he comes back _covered in blood?!_ ”

“Hey! I didn't know he was gonna do that! We used to-”

“What altitude did you warp him to?! You _do_ realize Mirage _just_ had a _major processor-related procedure_ -”

“I'd never do anything to hurt him!”

Flatline and Skywarp yelled at each other. Quickmix looked between the two, his mixer turning faster. Mirage tuned his audials down. 

He looked at the monitors, but for all the time he had spent staring at them mindlessly from the med bed, he could not understand what they said. He leaned closer. _I think that one says 'installation complete.' That's good, at least,_ he thought. He glanced around, but didn't see the wing Skywarp had said Quickmix brought over. _I hope the wing/floor piece works out well for the patient._

.:Flatline:. Mirage tapped Flatline's arm. .:I'm _fine_. Stop yelling:.

“-fucking _idiot_ -” Flatline bristled at Mirage's interruption. He glared at Skywarp. 

Skywarp glared back, his biolights flashing.

.:What happened? Why are you hooked up to the med bed?:. Mirage tapped Flatline's arm again. .:Are you alright?:. 

Flatline twitched. “The client did not react very well to the procedure. There was a violent outburst.”

“Punched me good,” said Quickmix, rubbing his chin. “Feisty. Damn.”

“My fault,” said Flatline. “I didn't have the right kind of anesthetic.” He looked at the monitors. “Fortunately, the operation was still a success.”

.:Oh. A Camien?:.

Flatline eyed him. “Yeah. A Camien.” He clutched his torso. “Punched me _very_ hard. Took out one of my stabilization lines.”

.:Oh!:. Mirage's knowledge of the inner workings of the frame wasn't extensive, but he knew some mechs' stabilization lines ran right through their spark chamber. The pain could be _awful_. Replicating that set up seemed like the kind of design decision the mechs who CC'd others would've made. Mirage thought of Flashflux struggling and how she had kicked Flatline. The blow had scuffed his face mask. Some of the other Camiens they had helped during their house calls had been even bigger and more powerful than she. .:Poor thing:.

“Yeah,” said Quickmix. He pointed at his dented face. _“Poor thing.”_

Flatline moaned. The plates in his chest clicked open and closed over and over, as if to a torturous rhythm. Mirage grimaced inwardly; the sound and sight of it were _unnatural_.

“Must be a big Camien to punch _you_ out,” said Skywarp, disbelief plain on his face.

Flatline noticeably retracted his field from the conversation. _“Yeah.”_

.:Why didn't you... do your special anesthesia thing?:.

“I didn't have it in me.” Flatline's finials were down all the way and out slightly- the first time Mirage saw them exhibit _pain_. It was a very similar finial position to _lying_. “I'll be okay. Just need a little rest. The med bed already jumpstarted the realignment procedure.” Flatline stood unsteadily. “I'll... go upstairs. And sleep. I want you in the med bed, Mirage. I want it to run the next processor assessme-” He paused. He tilted his head, his finials swinging around curiously, eyes brightening.

Flatline looked down. He lifted his arm. 

Blood seeped out between the plates of his clicking chest.

.:Oh!:.

The room flashed with Skywarp's surprise.

“Get back on the bed!” snapped Quickmix. He pushed Mirage aside and pounded on one of the light monitors. The rest rushed forward in a flurry. Quickmix pointedly blocked Mirage and Skywarp's view of Flatline's chest. “You two should get out of here,” he said, glaring at them.

.:Oh!:. Mirage stepped back. .:Yes, of course! I'm certain I can find somewhere else to stay for the night, Flatline! Please, take the med bed. You need it! I think I still have a room with the Protectobots:.

“No,” said Skywarp. He put an arm around Mirage. “We'll go somewhere together.”

Flatline narrowed his eyes at Skywarp. He comm'd Mirage. .:You feel okay about that? I thought Skywarp could handle a few hours with you but you came back covered in blood! I want you here. You haven't been evaluated properly yet:.

.:Flatline! _You're actively bleeding!_ I'm not injured! I can go one night without an evaluation!:.

Flatline's eyes flashed with pain as Quickmix did something Mirage couldn't see. .:If I literally didn't feel like I'd been punched in the spark chamber, I wouldn't even consider him taking you elsewhere:.

Mirage glanced at Skywarp. He was watching the med bed with a passive expression. But his wings were angled, knees bent, null-rays just peeking up from his forearms. It was a preparatory stance: ready to move from observation mode to flight or fight in case of danger. .:I think I am safe with Skywarp. He's very protective. He has been nothing but affectionate and supportive:.

.:Yeah, I'll bet. Just remember... he's not who you knew before, anymore:. Flatline's finials flicked to the sides. .:His behavior last night tells me that he won't let someone _else_ hurt you. But even if his feelings for you are intact, he's a different mech from the one who helped you millions of years ago. Extended, private time alone with him could be... I'm not certain as to his stability. There are two ways mechs react to pain, Mirage. When they're hurt, do they empathize with others, because they know what pain is like? Or do they spread the pain with violence?:.

.:You think he is dangerous?:.

.:All Decepticons are dangerous:.

.:Only an ex Decepticon can be trusted?:.

.:Of course:. One finial flicked up. A hint of a smile.

“Hey, what're you guys saying?” Skywarp looked between the two of them.

“Yeah, we're not morons,” said Quickmix. “We're right here, you know.”

.:I do not think he is a danger:. sent Mirage quickly.

.:Hrmm:. Flatline reset his vocalizer. “For the record, I don't like it. Mirage, you can have my berth upstairs.”

“No,” said Skywarp, stepping closer to Mirage. “Cuz I ain't leaving his side and I'm guessing you won't let me in your room.”

“That I sure as hell won't,” said Flatline.

“You're welcome to stay with me,” said Quickmix, waggling his orbital arches. “ _Both_ of you.”

Skywarp sneered. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Why don't you stick your hands in my mixer and find out?”

.:We will be _fine!_ :. Mirage sent quickly. .:Feel better, Flatline:. 

“Wait.” Flatline _glared_ at Skywarp. Skywarp's eyes flashed. They stared at each other for a moment. Skywarp rolled his eyes. “I _mean_ it.” 

“Whatever.”

Flatline plugged wires under his own plating. “Quickmix?”

“Yeah, yeah...” Quickmix tapped at the monitors. Less quickly than Flatline, but he seemed to know what he was doing. His fingertips were bloody.

.:We'll come back tomorrow. Please, take good care:.

Flatline gave Mirage a thumbs up. He gave Skywarp a finial-glare.

VOP!!

~~

Skywarp warped them to a hotel in downtown Iacon. They stood in line in the lobby, out of place among the shiny business mechs and crisply-painted hotel staff.

“Was that _super weird_ or was that just me?” 

.:It was strange:.

“You don't think they were...” Skywarp made a lewd hand gesture. “And we got back at the wrong time?”

.:Oh! No, no. Surely not. Flatline would _never_ :.

“Hmm. Okay. Just, that Quickmix guy seems like the kind who likes to get punched. If you know what I mean.”

Mirage shuddered. .:How did you know?:.

“I can tell.” 

.:What did Flatline comm to you?:.

“Eh. Said he'd eviscerate me if anything happened to you. Mechs go out better than in or something, I dunno. Pff.”

“Uh. Sirs?”

Mirage and Skywarp both whipped around to the hotel attendant behind the desk. The poor bot had only heard half the conversation, which included Skywarp's lewd gesture in the proximity of the words “eviscerate” and “mechs go out better than in.” The bot had an extremely tired-looking customer service smile plastered on their face.

“Hey,” said Skywarp. He leaned against the desk. The attendant backed up a step. “One room. Biggest bed you got. And a _fancy_ shower.”

Even though Mirage offered to pay for the room, Skywarp insisted on doing a quick labor loan. While he worked for the owner on the roof, Mirage showered and arranged the pillows on the bed. The processor program running constantly in the back of his mind was draining. As soon as he lay down, exhaustion ran through his frame. Sleepily, he took in the hotel room's bland décor. There was an office chair and a desk by the window, framed holo landscapes of old Cybertron, and a small fridge. He dozed off.

~~

Mirage woke to the sound of Skywarp contracting and extending his wings repeatedly, flicking off water droplets from his own shower. Skywarp flopped down on the bed. “Oh my _god_. This bed feels _amazing_. Do you know how _long_ it's been since I slept somewhere decent?” He dug his fingers into the mass of blankets, faceplanted into the pillows, and moaned. 

.:No idea. I'm grateful they no longer give you a hard time about ceiling requirements and alt modes:.

“That was a long time ago,” Skywarp said, muffled, into the pillow. “But yeah, it was shitty.” Skywarp folded his wings back and turned to lie on his side. He grinned and patted the bed. “C'mon. C'mere. It'll help you remember.”

Mirage slowly inched over to him. The dreams and memories he'd been having were all so sensual, so steeped in adoration and hot lines. Before the processor procedure, he had been secretly wondering, _hoping_ even, for a chance to relive them. Now that the moment was possibly upon him, he didn't know what to think. It didn't feel quite right. 

Flatline's warning echoed through his processor.

Skywarp slowly reached his hand out. When Mirage didn't stop him, he laid it on his shoulder. “You okay?”

.:I'm... I'm alright:. Mirage eyed the Decepticon badge on Skywarp's chest.

Skywarp squinted at him. “You know I heard you before. At the cliff. I know this is weird for you. Last time you remembered a lot faster. But maybe since it's been so long, it's gonna take your processor longer. We're just... we're just gonna lie here together tonight. That's it.” His hand moved down Mirage's side. It was warm and heavy, brushing the edges of Mirage's biolights. “If that's all you want, that's all it'll be. You know that, right?”

.:Alright:.

“I've waited two million years for this. You. A safe place.” Skywarp smiled as Mirage moved a little closer. His wings vibrated. “You're so fucking cute.”

.:Even with no face?:.

“Yes.” Skywarp kissed his helm. “It's like a, what would you call it, 'minimalistic charm.'”

A bit of mirth came through Mirage's field. 

Skywarp smiled. He kissed him again. His field thickened and his wings curled forward. He pulled Mirage closer. His engines purred. “You okay?”

.:It's... it's pleasant. But it's strange:.

Skywarp nodded. 

.:The things I remember are... they're _very_ pleasant. But to be with you now feels... it's just...:. Mirage pulled the blanket up so it covered the Decepticon badge on Skywarp's chest. 

Skywarp glanced down but didn't catch what Mirage had done. “Are you cold?”

.:Not re-:.

Skywarp tugged him closer. Their bodies touched. The purring of his engine rippled through Mirage's plating. Skywarp's field burst with lust. 

It was so powerful and raw, it startled Mirage. To feel it in dreams was one thing. To have it pour through him in reality was _shocking._ Skywarp's field permeated his own with shards of adoration and lust. It was the field equivalent of a stranger whipping open their chest and panels in public for all to see.

“Nnn... _sorry,_ ” Skywarp said, his fingers gripping and releasing Mirage's frame. “Oh god, you've always felt _so_ good. It's _unholy._ I don't know _why_ , you just always have.” He moaned and pressed his lips against Mirage's helm crest.

Mirage's lines warmed. The display certainly was _alluring._ It was flattering. 

But also invasive. 

Mirage pushed him away. .:I don't want to get intimate with you:.

Pain flicked through Skywarp's eyes. “Yeah. Yeah. No problem.” Skywarp forced his engine to quiet and reigned his field in. Slowly, he loosened his arms and released Mirage.

Mirage edged away. He put a pillow between them. 

Static crackled at the corners of Skywarp's eyes. 

.:Nothing personal. It is what I feel is best for me:.

Skywarp nodded. 

.:I would like to sleep now:.

Skywarp nodded again. He turned away and touched the wall. The room darkened.

.:Your biolights are still very beautiful:.

Skywarp made a strangled sound. He reset his vocalizer. “Thanks,” he said.

.:Thank you for laboring for the room. It's lovely. You didn't have to do tha-:.

“Good night, Mirage.” 

The mattress moved and bounced as Skywarp arranged himself more comfortably. The biolights on the backs of his wings flashed with pain. Slowly, they faded to resting illumination.

.:Good night:.

~~

Mirage's eyes were closed. The world was black. A soft, wet cloth swiped over his eyelids and the world was bright again. His eyes were still closed.

Skywarp, blurrier now, was biting his lower lip in concentration. His field was wild and pleasant, a slowly-building excitement churning beneath layers of happiness. His wings fluttered.

“You still delight in doing this after so many years,” said Mirage. He smiled as the cloth passed over his lips.

“Hell yeah,” said Skywarp. He dipped the cloth into a bowl of paint thinner. 

“This brand doesn't smell as strong as the last. Is it working properly?”

“Yup.” Skywarp wiped the paint off Mirage's nose and cheeks. He folded the cloth around his fingertip and gently went around the bottom of Mirage's face where it connected to his neck cables. Then, with soft-tipped swabs, he very carefully traced the rims of his eyes. 

Mirage stifled a laugh. Skywarp twisted his mouth to the side as he wiped Mirage's lips and scrunched up his eyes when he did Mirage's lids. He made those faces every time.

Mirage stuck his tongue out. “How does it look?”

Skywarp squinted. “Still good.”

“Good.” Mirage hated having his tongue and teeth painted. It felt weird and tasted bad until the paint dried. They usually only had to be painted every other time, thankfully. They didn't get the weathering his face did.

Skywarp took Mirage's chin and tilted his head. “Yup. All good. Wait.” He leaned in close. “There's something... right... there.” He kissed Mirage. “Hah! Got it.”

Mirage smiled. “Thank you, beloved! You always do the perfect job.”

The undercurrent of excitement in Skywarp's field thickened. “What color d'you want this time?”

“Hmm... what do we have?”

“Three, four, and I think there's some six left.” Skywarp swung his chest open. Inside were paint strokes, little swatches of different colors he'd made for reference.

“Hmm...” Mirage took the opportunity to gently touch the inside of Skywarp's chest. He brushed his fingertips across the paint swatches until Skywarp shivered. “Six.”

Skywarp pulled the tin of paint from subspace and set it on the table next to the berth. “I like that one. It looks good on you.”

Mirage struck a pose.

“Everything looks good on you.”

Mirage waved with mock deflection. “Is this the part where you say, 'especially me'?”

“Especi- dammit.” Skywarp crawled forward, pushing Mirage back on the berth. He grinned. “Gonna have to think of some new lines.” His field twisted around them. His biolights slowed. 

Mirage's lines warmed as Skywarp's field mingled with his own. The plating of his shoulders and chest relaxed, pulling apart slightly. This was the only time Mirage felt truly, _truly_ at ease: in this small room with his beloved, fields wild and face bare. He pulled Skywarp down, close enough that he could see the scratches in his face clearly again. They pressed together, Skywarp careful not to put too much of his weight on Mirage. “Thank you for taking care of me,” Mirage said quietly.

“Always,” said Skywarp. He wriggled his arms beneath Mirage, under and around his axels, and held up his head so he'd be comfortable. He stared into Mirage's eyes, the reddish-purple of his own reflecting in the curves of his lover's glass face. “You're so _fuckin'_ gorgeous.” 

“As are y- _mmph.”_

Skywarp kissed him. And kissed him. And kissed him... 

~

“Nice hotel room,” said Flatline. He pulled the office chair away from its desk and over to the bed. He sat down across from Mirage. 

Mirage glanced around. The room was in focus. It smelled like floor cleaner and musty sheets. The lighting had no clear source. This must be a dream.

“Skywarp was such a nice guy before the war,” said Flatline.

Mirage gave Flatline a questioning look.

“We're about the same size, he and I, right? Minus the wings, of course.”

Mirage eyed him. “I suppose.”

Flatline brought his palms together in front of his chest. He slowly extended his arms away from his body, holding the pose. “Watch my shoulders.”

Puzzled, Mirage did so.

As Flatline moved, his shoulders extended slightly to make space for his upper arms so they wouldn't scratch his chest.

“Did you catch that?” asked Flatline once his arms were fully outstretched.

“No.”

Flatline repeated the motion. “If I were painting your face,” he said. “I wouldn't have trouble reaching it, no matter your distance from my body.”

“What?” Mirage touched his cheek. It was wet.

“Skywarp was such a nice guy before the war,” said Flatline.

~

“Delta-RR1: four hundred twenty-seven million, one hundred twenty-two thousand, eight hundred fifty-four casualties.”

Mirage blinked. 

“Delta-RR2: one billion, seven hundred thirty-six million, four hundred seventeen thousand, three hundred sixty-eight casualties.”

Jazz shook his head slowly, the blue of his visor muted. He glanced at Mirage.

The Ark-8's command center was dark, its monitors dimmed, displaying planetary positions and cascading numbers. In the faint light Mirage could just see his fellow Autobots standing in a semi-circle, their hands over their sparks. Prowl stood before them, reciting numbers in a clear, somber tone.

Mirage comm'd Jazz. .:What's going on?:. 

.:Damn, mech! You blankin' again?:. he responded.

“Zeta-01: two billion, five hundred seventy-two million, eight hundred fifty-one thousand, four hundred seven casualties.”

.:Prowl's reading out the casualties of this solar system! Pay your respects, mech!:. Jazz jutted his chin at Mirage's chest. Mirage hastily placed his hands over his spark. .:Decepticons swept through. We were a month too late:.

“Zeta-02: one hundred fifteen casualties. Zeta-03: seventy-four casualties. Zeta-04: sixty-six casualties.” 

.:All those organics. Poor little things never had a chance:. 

“Zeta-05: forty casualties. Zeta-06: fifty-nine casualties. Zeta-07: twelve casualties. Zeta-08: three casualties. Zeta-09: one casualty. Zeta-10: one casualty. Zeta-11: two casualties. Zeta-12: one casualty. Zeta-13: one casualty. Zeta-14: two casualties. Zeta-15: one casualty. Zeta-16: one casualty. Zeta-17: two casualties.”

.:They died on shattered moons:.

~

“Skywarp was such a _nice_ guy before the war,” said Flatline.

~

“Zeta-18: one casualty. Zeta-19: two casualties. Zeta-20: one casualty. Zeta-21: one casualty. Zeta-22: one casualty. Zeta-23: one casualty. Zeta-24: one casualty. Zeta-25: one casualty. Zeta-26: one casualty. Zeta-27: one casualty. Zeta-28: one casualty. Zeta-29: one casualty.”

~

“I wanna travel to every planet out there,” Skywarp said, gesturing at the ceiling. He smelled like fancy glass cleaner. Mirage ran a soft cloth up and down his biolights, wiping away the dirt. “And carve _Skywarp Was Here_ in its highest mountain. Or in its biggest desert. Or something. Leave my mark on every planet in the galaxy!”

~

“Zeta-30: one casualty. Zeta-31: one casualty. Zeta-32: one casualty. Zeta-33: one casualty. Zeta-34: one casualty. Zeta-35: one casualty. Zeta-36: one casualty. Zeta-37: one casualty. Zeta-38: one casualty. Zeta-39: one casualty.”

~

“Skywarp was such a nice guy _before the war,_ ” said Flatline.

~~

Mirage jolted awake, his tanks churning, spark queasy. The hotel room was dark. Skywarp slept, his biolights pulsing and receding cyclically. He had pulled Mirage close at some point during the night and tucked him under his chin. His field was serene, his cheek vents gently pouring warm air into Mirage's open helm. Mirage pushed away from him. Skywarp stirred.

“Hhhnnhh?” his vocalizer was staticky. He opened one eye.

.:You grabbed me:.

“Mmmhhh.” Skywarp squeezed him. His mouth twitched into a smile.

.:Let me go:.

Skywarp made a little sound, a spark-wrenching whine. His eye closed. His arms parted. Mirage wiggled away from him.

Skywarp's field sent out a wave of sadness. He curled into himself and fell back asleep.

~~

“What's wrong? What's wrong, Mirage? You've been quiet all morning.”

They were beyond the edge of the city, watching the ships launch in the distance. Dozens of space craft glittered as they ascended, catching the light of the sun before winking out of sight. The stark, dusty plains stretched all around them, bright and warm. 

“Is it cuz of last night?”

Mirage nodded. .:I've been thinking about us. We're different people now than before. I don't know how this is supposed to work. I know we loved each other once, but do you still feel it?:.

“Yes!!” Skywarp bowed slightly and angled his wings. His body language was clear: _adoration_. “Always!”

.:But I have forgotten, again and again...:.

“That wasn't your fault!”

.:I think... I think we need to slow down. You've been at my side ever since I woke up from the processor treatment. But I feel I don't know you. All this time, something has been bothering me, and I've finally figured out what it is:.

Skywarp's face fell. His field pulsed with concern. “What? What is it? We'll fix it!”

.:Skywarp, you are a Decepticon. You can't ask me to ignore what that means:.

“Decepticon?” Skywarp's biolights flashed with utter confusion. “What does _that_ have to do with anything?”

.:You know what it means:.

“It means I fought for liberation! I fought for conquest, for Cybertronian dominance!”

.:Precisely. You murdered countless beings:.

“So?!”

.:So, that's a _bad_ thing, Skywarp!:. Mirage pulled his field in. .:It's a terrible thing! I can't ignore it!:.

Skywarp's biolights flashed again. 

.:I think, at the _very least_ , we need to reacquaint ourselves with each other. You've suddenly arrived and have expectations that I can pick up where we last left off. I need some emotional distance to _process_ this properly, because there's too much missing-:.

“We've _had_ distance! We've had millions of years! Don't ask me to do it again, I can't!” Skywarp's pain flared out and he struggled to contain it. “Distance won't fix it! Being _together_ is what helps the memories come back!”

.:I don't mean a distance of _millions of years._ I mean some space-:.

“I don't know what will happen if you break my spark a third time!” Skywarp clutched his chest.

.:You will be responsible for your own actions:. sent Mirage, his field crisp.

“Why are you being so cold?” Skywarp's eyes crackled at the edges with static. “Who cares what I did during the war! It was _war!_ I'm sure you did terrible things, too! And the _Autobots._ Look what they did to _you!_ ”

Mirage shook his head. .:What they did was wrong, but it wasn't genocide! Do you regret your actions? The holocausts done at your hands?:.

“I-!” Skywarp grimaced. “I know what you want me to say. I know what you wanna hear. But I _don't_. I don't regret it! And even if I did, what could I do about it? Do you want me to rip myself apart in atonement? Throw myself at the Autobot council's feet? You know what they were gonna do to Megatron! He found some goddamn loophole to get onto the Lost Light but you know they won't fall for that twice-”

.:I think about who you were before the war:. sent Mirage, weaving a holo crystal in the air. .:And I cannot connect it with who you are now:. The crystal shattered. .:The mech I loved then doesn't exist anymore:.

“I'm _right here!”_

.:You're not the same:.

Skywarp rolled his eyes. “Hello?! Either are you! You don't even have a _face!_ I haven't heard your _voice_ in two million years!” He touched Mirage's side. “These biolights weren't here the last time I ran my tongue down your body!”

Heat flashed through Mirage. He angrily pushed it away. .:I do not know how to reconcile it in my mind, Skywarp! How you could have been kind to me but murdered so many! How can you possibly be the same mech? How do I reconcile this!:.

“I don't know!” Skywarp threw his arms up in exasperation. “What about Flatline, huh? Do you know about all the shit _he_ did? And you hacked up dead people for him!”

.:I was choiceless in the matter! And though I don't know the details of what Flatline did in the past, he has since chosen a path that brings healing to others. He has made very obvious and heartfelt actions reflecting his decision!:. Mirage thought back to what Flatline had said when Mirage had questioned his intentions. .:As to that odorous past, he said I had to accept it, just as he must:.

“Yeah,” said Skywarp. “That's what we all gotta do. Accept it and move on.”

Mirage said nothing.

“You do wanna move on, right?” said Skywarp. “Right?”

.:Of course:.

“...with me? Right?”

Mirage was silent.

“Mirage?” Panic rose in Skywarp's field. _“Right?”_

.:I don't know:.

Skywarp's lines ran cold. “What happened?” he asked. “Why are you talking like this? Just yesterday at the cliff, you were all, 'I want to remember everything.' Just last night you were _in bed_ with me! You were having a dream and you reached out to me in your sleep! You called me by name! The comm blitzed through my brain! I felt your plating warm! I pulled you close, but when you woke up, you pushed me away again. _Why?_ What's going on, Mirage?”

.:I remembered something Flatline had said. About how angry and destructive you were during the war. And I can't reconcile that with my memories of you:. Mirage tapped his fingers together. .:I think the luster of my memories has outshined reality. I tell Flatline you loved me very much and he cannot believe it. I know my memory is faulty. It has been corrupted. I am concerned, because the Skywarp I see in memories and the Skywarp you are, are two very different mechs. I don't know how the Skywarp I loved could've become a Decepticon. But since he _did_ , I'm therefore not sure _why_ he helped me back then. He must have had an ulterior motive. He must've been using me for something:.

Skywarp's jaw dropped.

.:I know you're a lot smarter than you let people believe you are. I know you manipulated _me_ a bit- I see it in my memories, however true they may be. The only constant I've found in my life is being used. Being used by everyone who ever knew me. So _why_ did you... why did you help me, back then? Why did you help me at the Academy?:.

“I told you! The Crystal Gardens, don't you remember? I told you. The moment I saw you...”

.:Yes?:.

“You _know_ why!”

.:I want to hear it:.

“You've seen it! You've _felt_ it!” Skywarp flooded his field out, layers and layers of pain and adoration and lust. “That's more than words could ever express! You _know!_ ”

.:I want to hear it:.

“I love you!” Skywarp fell to his knees. His wings lowered in submission. He took Mirage's hands. “The moment I saw your face! You _know_ that! The moment I saw it in darkness, your eyes shining through your face- the truest thing I've ever seen! You are the most beautiful, amazing mech I have ever met! You are my connection to warpy space! You _bared your spark_ to me, Mirage! And, in case you still don't remember that, _you_ initiated! You did it first! _Not_ me!” 

.:Oh...:. A cold feeling flooded through Mirage at the thought of baring his spark first. _He_ had been first! What that _meant_... and that he couldn't remember it at all. He seized up at the thought of it, that he had made such a powerful, intimate, important gesture to this mech and _couldn't remember it-_

Skywarp's field twisted in agony. “Fucking you is the most amazing thing I've ever felt. I would've slaughtered billions of organics during the war with my bare hands just to hold you again for _one minute!”_

The brutality of this statement cut through Mirage's stupor. He thought of Prowl reading out the casualties of an entire solar system. His field flashed with disgust.

“You make my spark radiate in its chamber! You make me-” his vocalizer dissolved into static. Skywarp reset it. “Without you, all this time, I've been in pain! Following orders and _happy_ to do it- happy, Mirage! Because I got to make other people hurt as much as I did! Because _you weren't there!”_

.: **!!!** :. shocked static burst through the comm. Mirage wrenched his hands out of Skywarp's. .:You _dare_ blame me for your choice?! You chose to join the Decepticons _before_ I was forced away from you!:.

Skywarp stared at his empty hands. 

.:There was something in that hateful rhetoric that spoke to you!:.

“There was!” Skywarp hauled himself to his feet, his wings shooting upwards. “Cuz I got CC'd in a shitty factory and I got a shitty alt mode and I had a shitty job! But then you stumbled into my life. You, who had everything you ever coulda wanted! Who never did a day of work in your whole life, and you wowed the board, got a room... you didn't even have to pay tuition! And I wasn't even mad then! I just accepted it!”

.:I may not have labored as you did but I suffered greatly-:.

“I know the cult fucked you up! I'm not saying that didn't happen. It's why I shared everything I had with you- _everything!_ And through you I learned about all the shit I never got to see- all that fancy, expensive, cultural shit. Not that I want it now, or need it now, or even wanted or needed it back then. But it wasn't even _available_ to me! I didn't have the chance to say no! And then the Decepticon movement sprang up and what _they_ said made sense. It all fell into place. It _wasn't_ right that I couldn't do what I wanted just cuz I was a flier! It _wasn't_ right that all the power belonged to a few! And, even though I love you, it wasn't right you got all you did and I got nothing! Just because you were forged and I was not!” 

Mirage stared at him, anger building in his field.

“I listened to Megatron and what he said made sense. I thought about it a lot! And I joined! And you _agreed_ with me! You thought it wasn't fair, either, and you wanted- you wanted- and then _they_ took you! And that sealed my decision for good. I was so mad, _so hurt_. I gave you everything, Mirage! _Everything I was and **everything I had!**_ And they _took you!_ ” Rage flared from his field. “I _loathe_ the Autobots! I did everything in my power to destroy them and anyone who stood with them!”

.:Innocent lives!:.

“Nothing the Autobots touch is innocent!”

.:That's horrid! That's _all horrid!_ How dare you say you committed atrocities in memory of me!:. Flatline's words came to Mirage's mind. .:In the face of pain, you hurt others! You, who were hurt so very badly! You, who could have empathized from the depths of your spark and helped, chose violence and murder instead!:.

_“What?!”_ Skywarp stared at him in disbelief. “I gave you _everything-”_

.:That you cannot even conceive of empathy tells me all I need to know!:. Mirage went invisible. Skywarp squinted. .:Leave!:.

“No! I don't want to go anywhere without you. I _can't-”_

_.:Leave!:._ Mirage turned away from him. 

Skywarp growled. He reached for Mirage, tilting his face away. “I can't leave you again! I know the truth hurts but that's it, it _is_ the truth and-” He heard the sound of transformation. Skywarp squinted where Mirage had been and saw a trail of bright light, car-shaped, vanishing into the distance. “No! _No!”_

VOP!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the previous really broke my OTP-loving heart to write, but I felt it would be a great disservice to the characters not to acknowledge that 1) there's no way Mirage, as he is, could ever possibly fall mindlessly in love with Skywarp at first sight, and 2) there's no way Mirage, as his is, could ever be unbothered by Skywarp's Decepticon past.


	21. Circuitous Designs

“Flatline!”

“GAH!!” Flatline jumped up from his chair, missiles whirring. Light monitors scattered. The shop sensors flashed and sounded their alarms. Flatline spun towards the burst of light and sound. “What the fuck, Skywarp!”

“I need to talk to you!” The Seeker glared at him and paced around the cluster of strobing consoles. 

“Don't _do_ that! You're going to give me an infarction!” Flatline forced his missiles down and turned the alarms off. “Use the goddamn door!”

“ _I don't give a fuck about doors!_ ”

“Okay, okay! Talk, don't yell.” Flatline clenched his fists, trying to override his deep, _deep_ desire to punch Skywarp in the face. “ _I'm_ fine, by the way, thanks for aski-”

“I don't know where Mirage is! He ran away from me. I followed but I lost him in downtown Iacon and he must've turned visible again cuz I couldn't see him anymore and I've been searching for the past two hours and-”

“Slow down. Tell me what happened.”

Skywarp gave his account of the events outside the city, stomping around the room and gesticulating angrily.

“Let me get this straight,” said Flatline, finials back, deeply unamused. “Even though I _told_ you Mirage was going to display confusing behavior... even though _I told you_ all you had to do was shut the fuck up and listen to him... In the same breath you told Mirage that you loved him, you said fucking him was the best thing you'd ever felt and you would murder billions and billions of people to do it with him again. Is that right?”

“Yeah! Well, not _people._ Organics-”

“You know Autobots think they're the same!” Flatline rubbed his forehead. “I'm not a counselor and you're not paying me. I really don't wanna listen to this! In part because I know that _you_ won't listen to _me._ You've already demonstrated such. Decepticons- even former ones- put us in a room together and we start screaming. I'm over it.”

Skywarp's field flared out in desperation. “Who else am I gonna talk to! I dunno why, but Mirage told _you_ all about his shit! The cult and _us_ and- and he doesn't just tell _anybody_ that stuff!” 

“That's not my problem.”

“Add this on to my labor trade, then, I don't care! I'll go through all the death pits on Cybertron for your stupid samples!”

Flatline groaned. The _one_ thing he was willing to play counselor for. Skywarp would be a fantastic addition to his network. Skywarp's abilities meant he could go anywhere, get _anything_... 

“I'm gonna hold you to that.” Flatline cradled his helm in his hands. “Okay,” he said slowly. “First of all, you can't just go around telling Autobots how much you wanna kill people. Especially in the context of how much you wanna bang them. They don't like that. They don't understand... what it means to be a Decepticon. What it meant to us during the war and what it means to claw your way away from those stereotypes afterwards. And, of course by that I mean, what it meant to _you_ during the war. Because I loathed every minute of it.”

“I heard evil laughter coming from your labs!”

“Yes. Well.” Flatline waved a hand nonchalantly. “One must try to find joy in all one's work, no matter how loathsome.”

“That's what I was _saying_ -”

“Yeah? Well, you said it wrong.”

“I always say the important things wrong!” shouted Skywarp. “He _knows_ that! That's why I always _show_ him. I _showed_ him my field-”

“ _He's forgotten everything you think he knows!_ This fact, above all others, should be obvious to you!” Flatline shook his head in disgust. “How did Mirage fall for someone so _stupid_. None of it ever sounded real. It all sounded like some kind of twisted goddamn _hostage_ situation-”

“I'm _not_ stupid,” snapped Skywarp. “And it sure as _fuck_ wasn't a hostage situation. It was all real!” Skywarp intentionally flooded his field so Flatline could feel the truth of his words. “It was easy to love him! Easy and good and right!” He pointed to his cockpit. “Deep down Mirage still wants to be perfect. He was _raised_ in perfection, _told_ he was perfect, _made to be_ perfect. There are things he won't let go of cuz he thinks, maybe, _just maybe_ , something miraculous will happen and he'll suddenly attain Perfection- whatever the fuck that is. But no mech can achieve perfection according to their own standards!” Skywarp slammed his hand against his chest. The _clang!_ echoed in the body shop. “But to me he _is_ perfect no matter how broken or fucked up he feels!”

“That's _cute,_ ” said Flatline. “I'm sure your feelings are _really_ helpful to him. Really got him through all those years of you _being forgotten_.”

“Shut up, Flatline! You don't know anything about what our time _together_ was like!” shouted Skywarp. “I've _never_ used him. That cult? Used him. The Autobots? _Definitely_ used him. You? And Quickmix? Sure, you have an agreement, but you wouldn't give a _damn_ about him if he wasn't medically interesting to you. And I'm sure once he's done here you'll capitalize the hell outta whatever tech you make off his _broken face_ and he won't see a single shanix from it.”

Flatline's finials flicked back defensively. “And _you?_ You don't fuck him to ascend to warpy space or whatever?”

“ _No,_ ” said Skywarp. _No,_ I've _never_ touched him unless he wanted it.”

“Congratulations,” said Flatline. “You've done the _bare minimum_ in a healthy relationship.”

Skywarp sputtered. “That's not what I meant!”

“That's what you said, though.”

Skywarp fumed. Then, very carefully, his field straining at the edges, he said, “everything I ever did - back then, before the war, once he was in my life - _everything_ I did was for him. Did he tell you about the extra ten thousand years?”

“Yeah. That's not _that_ long.”

Skywarp snarled. “Did he tell you about the Academy _extracting my spark?”_

_“What?”_ Despite himself, Flatline's field pulsed with shock. “A _real_ extraction? A _full_ extraction?”

“Yes! He doesn't remember that?” 

“How the fuck are you still _alive?”_ Flatline had done extractions. He wasn't proud of it now. He wasn't proud of the survival rate for them, either.

“You fuckin' tell me!” Skywarp's eyes darkened. “You know what the Academy was doing to me, right? He told you?”

“Something about... freight? Having you transport shit around, sometimes in dangerous places?”

“ _Yeah._ But did he tell you _why?_ ”

“I don't think he remembers.”

“They were testing me so they could build transporters, quantum engines, quantum shit, all that shit. This was way back, way before the ground bridges worked. I was the only thing on the planet that could teleport. They put all kinds of monitoring shit inside me, scanned me, probed me. Had me warp as _far_ as I could, til I was dry, offline, spinning out alone in deep space. Took them weeks to find me and bring me back one time. They were trying to reverse engineer me to make teleporter tech. They _wanted_ a nice, obedient teleporting slave, but they got _me.”_

Flatline shifted in his seat.

“After a few thousand years of living with Mirage- loving him, _fucking_ him, being _with_ him almost daily- they noticed my spark was changing.”

Flatline arched an orbital ridge. He activated a nearby monitor and flicked through it.

“My spark didn't get weaker. It got _stronger_. I could teleport further. But that wasn't cuz of Mirage. They figured that would happen. Outliers get more powerful with time. But they found they couldn't get data off me anymore. Their monitors wouldn't work right. It was like... like... no matter how they tuned the sensors, they couldn't get a grip on my energy. They couldn't _measure_ it anymore. It had changed into something they couldn't...”

“See?”

“Yeah. Kinda. Something like that.” Skywarp brushed his chest. “You told Mirage we were linked during our first warp, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“That puts all this in a different perspective.” Skywarp flashed his biolights. “Warpy space got joined and mixed up between us. Makes more sense now. We were _both_ changed. He got processor damage and I got spark mutation. But we didn't know about his thing. We only saw _me_ changing. And the Academy didn't like that.”

“So... they took your spark out?”

_“They took my fucking spark out,”_ spat Skywarp. “I was legally dead for forty-five minutes while they stuck every single instrument they had into it, and my body hung, pinned open, on the wall next to it.”

Flatline leaned forward. “What did they find out?”

“Nothing,” said Skywarp with a nasty grin. “My spark fried all their shit. And since they had nothing else to lose, they put it back inside me. And I survived. And they marked me down for 'later evaluation.'”

Flatline scribbled on the light monitor. “Is information about this evaluation available anywhere?”

“I don't know!” Anger flared through Skywarp's field. “You're missing the point, Flatline!”

“Ah.” Reluctantly, Flatline set the monitor aside. “What did you do after you woke up from the extraction? Kill them all?”

“ _No._ I pulled myself together and walked out like they didn't do nothing. Didn't want to give 'em the satisfaction of seeing me... seeing me hurtin'... but I didn't know what to do with myself... I didn't want Mirage to see me like that.”

“Did you go to a hospital?”

“No. Wandered around the city trying to ignore the pain in my chest. I went to the garden but they wouldn't let me in. I went to the Main but the energy all around it hurt. It was getting late, I didn't want Mirage to worry. And it hurt more and more. I got dinner cuz I knew he'd forget to and then I went home.”

“What? Wandering around? _Dinner?_ After getting _your spark extracted?_ You should've been put in intensive care for support and viewing! They should've made sure your spark realigned properly!” Flatline made a disgusted sound. “Even _I_ did that on _The Irradion_. To the survivors.”

“I don't know! They told me they were done so I left! I held it all together til I got home and then...” He put his hands over his spark and winced. “I couldn't tell Mirage at first. I was _sick_ with hurt. It's– I've never been shadowplayed, but it's, it's gotta be the spark version of that. Your chest and chamber opened, spark forced out and _probed_. You don't feel it while you're legally dead. You feel it _after,_ after they put your spark back in...”

Flatline imagined his spark chamber being pulled apart at the seams. Thin, energy-resistant forceps inserted. The spark would writhe and twist around itself with all its might in a vain attempt to resist the violation... He shuddered.

“But Mirage knew something was wrong. He kept asking, he tried to make me feel better. He...” Skywarp's biolights flashed in a stress pattern. “He knew something was wrong. And when I finally told him what the Academy did, he punched the wall.” Skywarp laughed bitterly. “It was almost kinda funny. He had never done anything like that before. Scraped up his fist and yelped. He even apologized afterwards. But, but I didn't care about the fucking _wall._ ”

“Did the Academy know Mirage was what had caused your energy to change?”

“Yeah. They offered me one billion shanix to leave him. They said as soon as my spark normalized after he left and they got their data, they'd dismiss the rest of my service years. _And_ they'd get me a special letter from the government that would say I wasn't function-bound. I wouldn't have to do freight anymore. I could do anything I wanted. Go anywhere I wanted. _Be_ anyone I wanted. I could waltz into the Towers if I wanted to. It was everything I'd been slaving away for, for all those years.”

“One... billion...” Flatline's finials twitched. “ _Pre-war_ shanix...”

“I told them to go fuck themselves,” said Skywarp. 

Flatline blinked. “Damn. Pre-war Skywarp couldn't be bribed to leave.”

“Of course not! And so I was stuck at the goddamn Academy for thousands and thousands and _thousands_ more years until Starscream got me out! But Mirage was there. He was with me! It was _worth_ it. Only _one_ thing would've separated me from him!”

“What's that?”

Skywarp's field flared out in pain. “If he left me first.”

“Oh. Ohhh.” Flatline's finials swung out. “Shit. And he didn't even _want_ to leave you.”

“Yeah. But I didn't know that, then. I did everything I coulda for him and he left and it hurt so _fuckin'_ bad. Worse than the Academy pulling my spark out. Worse than anything I've ever felt before or after... except the _second_ time it happened.” Skywarp made a fist. “I beat that pain into the face of every Autobot I could. I've killed, Flatline. I know you know that. Everyone knows that. I dunno what I can tell him. I dunno what to _say._ It's the truth. All that shit happened. I can't change it.”

His words hung in the air, suspended in the misery of his field.

“It's complicated,” said Flatline at last.

“Yeah.”

“A tragic figure turned into a murder machine.”

“It ain't poetry, Flatline!” Skywarp went to kick one of the cabinets, then thought better of it. He flicked his wings instead. “It's just shit.”

“Yeah.”

Skywarp yanked a chair from the cluster and threw himself onto it. “I dunno what to tell him. I won't lie to him. But I can't tell the _truth_ cuz apparently I tell it wrong.”

“Yup.”

“ _Everything_ I do is wrong. Everything I've ever fuckin' done.” Skywarp kicked at the floor. “What _should_ I do?”

“I dunno,” said Flatline. “Aren't you supposed to be working for Galvatron?”

“Pff. I quit.”

Flatline quirked an optical ridge. “And he was okay with that?”

“ _No_. But what's he gonna do? He's got bigger problems than one missing Decepticon.”

“You could do some more labor trade-”

“I didn't mean it literally!” Skywarp crossed his arms over his chest. “I get it, Flatline. I'll fuck off. You can get back to whatever you do.”

“Sounds good,” Flatline said. He reached for a light monitor.

“I wish I knew what to say to him.”

Flatline's eyes dimmed. “You're not really gonna fuck off, are you?”

Skywarp just frowned at the floor.

“Well?” Flatline greeted the silence with a sigh. “I think you should tell Mirage what you told me. He probably doesn't remember some of that yet. It might help him... understand better. Giving up a function waiver... that was a big deal back then. But, you know, he has things he wants to do. Important things. Things that got interrupted when you showed up. If he doesn't want anything more to do with you, you gotta... let him go. ”

Skywarp's intakes tightened. His wings curled around him. Pain radiated from his field. “I gave him everything. I don't know what else I could've done,” he choked out. “I don't know what else I can say.”

.:I don't either:.

Skywarp's helm snapped up.

Mirage peeked out from behind the curtain of the patient alcove.

“Mirage?” Skywarp's vocalizer was staticky.

.:Yes:. Mirage walked to him. .:I remember you bringing home dinner that night. You fell to your knees in _such awful_ pain. I beheld the memory as a dream and your pain echoed in my waking spark. You brought me _take out_ after a _spark extraction?:._

Skywarp reset his vocalizer. “I knew you'd forget to eat.”

.:Did you really refuse a function waiver for me?:.

“Yeah.” 

.:That's... a _remarkable_ gesture. I don't remember that:.

Skywarp squeezed his eyes shut. “There's a lot you don't remember about that day. It was- that was when you-” Skywarp's field hitched with pain. He clenched and unclenched his fists.

.:What? When I what, Skywarp?:.

Eyes still tightly shut, he recited something.

It took Mirage a moment to realize what he was saying. Skywarp's accent in Old Cybertronian was _atrocious_. He was quoting _Circuitous Designs_ , Mirage's favorite play:

“ _It was more than words, more than the love pouring through your field, more than the splendor of your biolights. It was the life force flowing through your body reaching out to me, to **me**. Of all the beings in the universe, that which made you **you** had found something in me to love and adore. And you lay there, hot and crackling with electricity, breathing hard and smiling nervously with your chest open for the first time... for **me**..._ ”

Mirage shivered. The quotation brought back a sliver of memory: the _click_ of never-before-separated plates pulling apart inside his chest. Warm air touching his bare spark. Skywarp gripping his waist, his static-filled eyes widening in stunned realization. The room exploding with joy as the dazzling light of Skywarp's spark reached out in kind...

Warmth washed through Mirage. Not the sensual warmth of his dreams, but the overwhelming warmth of adoration. It scoured away some of the queasy ache in his spark. As it ebbed, an old string of data in his processor unlocked and Mirage addressed Skywarp on their private frequency. .:That was when I bared my spark to you:.

Skywarp's wings flicked at the sudden private transmission. He nodded, eyes still squeezed shut, his mouth twitching with words he couldn't say.

.:After you told me you had refused the Academy's offer... a gesture that placed me above _all_ things in your life, including yourself. You literally gave me everything you could:. 

“A- always.”

Mirage stood, thinking. .:I still cannot rectify your Decepticon past in my mind. And your actions during the war cannot be excused away. But I cannot _imagine_ the pain you must have felt coming home to find me gone after giving up so much for me. To have shared so much and been rejected without explanation... I dare say _I_ may have gone mad! I have done Flatline the courtesy of weighing his past against his present actions, judging him by how he has treated me. I have not found him wonting. It would be vile of me to deny you the same. The fragmented and uncertain nature of my memories... I did not know if you had lied to me in the past. I have been used by so many. But you're the only person I have ever shared that quote with:. Mirage touched his holo lips to Skywarp's helm. .:I believe I bared my spark to you in great love:. 

Skywarp opened his eyes at the gentle pressure. He took Mirage's helm in his hands and kissed his holo face. The slightly springy material fizzed.

.:I can't feel that:.

“I don't care, I'm gonna do it,” said Skywarp. Static crackled at the edges of his eyes. He kissed the holo lips again and again. “Goddammit, that's so _unsatisfying_.”

A bit of mirth came through Mirage's field. .:Imagine how _I_ feel:.

“Flatline!”

The medic looked around the light monitor he had been using to block their affectionate display. _“What?”_

“When's his face gonna be ready?”

Flatline scratched his chest. “A few more days. We're still testing the final glass recipe.”

“Dammit.” Skywarp kissed Mirage's hand aggressively. Mirage projected a smile.

“Are you two idiots good now?” Flatline waved them away. “Take that elsewhere, would you? Spreem's looking for labor. Go bother him.”

VOP!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;A;b


	22. Glass Smile

“Please, please, tell me you remembered it.” Skywarp gripped Mirage's hands, field pulling and pleading. They stood in the narrow alley between Spreem's restaurant and Flatline's shop. The street beyond bustled with mid-afternoon traffic. “Did you feel it? Do you _remember?”_

.:I remembered a sliver, a flash:. Mirage projected a smile. .:A lovely feeling washed through me:.

“Yes! Yes!” 

.:What did we do right after?:.

Skywarp blinked. “Uh. I mean, the actual _thing_ was the most exciting part.”

.:Yes, I imagine so. But what of the moments right after?:.

“You, uhh... after our sparks were done, you looked at me all stunned and embarrassed and then we laughed and closed our chests and didn't know what to do. You said you had half expected Primus to appear and beat you or drag you away to The Pit or something.”

.:Oh:.

“And then you said the other half of you thought something miraculous was supposed to happen but in reality nothing did except we both felt amazing. And... _closer.”_

.:I see. Did we celebrate in some way?:.

“We had our dinner... and... you said we had to mark the occasion. We should give each other something special.” Skywarp brushed his chest. “I wanted to have a big party but you said that would be a bad idea.”

Mirage nodded. .:Yes. To be honest, I'm surprised the Academy accepted your refusal. It seems like they would have retaliated in some way. This _did_ happen right after your spark extraction, yes?:.

“Yeah. You said you could feel how it hurt. How it felt. But the baring wiped the pain away.”

.:Do you think it was a good idea to bare our sparks right after the extraction? How did _you_ feel?:.

“A _good idea?_ You weren't really thinking about the ramifications. You just... I told you what the Academy had done and what they offered and that I'd said no and you... got this _look_ on your face and the next thing I knew there was the most amazing light pouring down and my chest was cracking open. And after I felt better. I felt...” Skywarp gave him a weak smile. “I felt like everything that had happened between us before was just the beginning and there was gonna be so much more. A big, fuckin' long future for us. Together. I was so happy. The extraction ached for a while, but it didn't _hurt,_ if you know what I mean.” 

.:I think I do:. Mirage put a hand on Skywarp's chest. .:I want something from you, Skywarp:.

Skywarp stepped closer. “What?”

.:This morning, outside the city, you said we would fix what was wrong. And I still think your past was wrong. And I know you can do nothing about it:.

Skywarp bristled.

.:I would like a promise from you:.

“What?”

.:That you will be better from now on:.

Skywarp looked away.

.:Not just for me, but for your sake, too. Such anger is unhealthy. Such pain in your field is unhealthy. Being better will help you feel better:. 

“Better according to who? The Autobot code?”

.:No:. 

“Then who?”

.:Until your conscience steps in again, me:.

“You never asked me to do something like that before,” said Skywarp. “We each let each other be ourselves! You never told me not to swear and I never told you that you couldn't have the little decorative things you had. We didn't change each other like that.”

.:Such tiny choices are _not_ what I mean. You cannot seriously look deep into your spark and think that murdering innocent beings is the right thing to do:. Mirage touched his face. .:Can you?:.

“I don't- who cares- I didn't-” Frustration built up in Skywarp's field.

.:If the reason for your pain and anger was that I was not there, than you must set them aside. Because _I am here now:._

“I-” Skywarp's wings inched downwards.

Mirage pushed his field out with sternness. .:The war is over. I am here. If you want us to move forward together, than you need to change. I cannot be with you as you are now. I _will_ not be with you as you are now. You were never that way in the past. I am certain past-me would not have tolerated you, either:.

Skywarp radiated pain.

.:Think about me as I was. As the mech I _was_ that you loved deeply:.

The tension in Skywarp's shoulders eased slightly.

.:How do you think he would feel about your wartime actions?:.

“He wouldn't-” Skywarp reset his vocalizer. His wings shifted. “He wouldn't have liked it. I don't think he could've even _understood_ it.”

Mirage nodded. .:I think you are right. And to be honest, I hardly understand it now. I do understand death in the context of battle between our sides. I do not understand it in the context of conquest over beings so much more fragile than ourselves:.

“Yeah.” Skywarp glanced away. “They were... different.”

.:The small things that I remember, how tender you were with me, I can feel that you loved me very much. I can _feel_ it in my frame. I believe it to be true:.

Skywarp nodded.

.:I want you to be like that again. You are a stranger to me, yet not a stranger. And I find myself very attracted to certain things about you- things that I know you _were_. Things I am certain you can be again. I believe that such deep caring cannot coexist with a violent, apathetic nature:.

Skywarp looked uncomfortable. “I can love you. I can't love _everyone_.”

.:You don't have to _love_ everyone. But there is a basic level of respect all living beings deserve:.

“Uuuuuuuughhhhhhhh...”

Mirage shook his head. .:I refuse to believe you actually need this explained to you. You knew it, once. We lived happily together and you were quite functional. You never hurt anyone! Or I would not have stayed:. 

After a long silence, Skywarp quietly said, “yeah.”

.:You know, somewhere deep in there, that what you did was not right:.

Skywarp said nothing.

.:But perhaps you did not care:. 

Still, Skywarp said nothing.

Mirage let a sigh through his field. .:I remembered an outing we had. At a light club. We danced together:.

Skywarp's eyes brightened. “Yeah!”

.:We fit our bodies together, partially transformed, as we moved. An extremely difficult, complex, and dangerous style of dance. We were very much in tune with each other, to have accomplished that safely and at such a frantic pace:.

Skywarp partially opened his forearm. “I wonder if we can still do that!”

Mirage gently pushed his plating back together. .:What I _mean_ is, at one point, we were a team. We acted as one in that dance. And when you say we hardly ever fought, I find myself believing you, because though we are different in personality, we must have worked together _very_ well to dance like that:.

Skywarp nodded.

.:I want to believe we can achieve that again. Because I have never had that with anyone else. And it feels... beautiful:.

Skywarp smiled. His field flashed with happiness. 

.:You know what I aim to do after I've recovered. I intend to find out who did this to me- to _us_. And I do not want the guilty parties destroyed. Not physically, anyway. But I can just see it now, you losing your temper and shooting everything in sight. I can see you shooting Prowl. I will not go forward with you if you do that. I shall content myself with the memories I have and pursue them no further. Do you understand?:.

Skywarp's smile fell. He looked at Mirage for a long time. “You used to be a lot sweeter.”

.:So did you:.

“Hmh.” 

.:I do not mean to be cruel about this, but rather very clear. Do you understand?:.

“I _do,_ but I don't like it.”

Mirage shifted. .:Why didn't you murder those at the Academy who extracted your spark?:.

“Because I... I didn't know that was an option. It wasn't something people _did.”_

.:Precisely. It's _not_ something people do:.

Skywarp looked at Mirage's scratched Autobot badge. He touched his own Decepticon badge. “Are you... is your end game to make me remove this? I don't want to.”

.:It disturbs me, but I would never force you to, no. I do believe if you embrace who you once were, though, you will find yourself discarding it on your own accord:.

“Hmph.”

.:So, do we agree? We will move forward together? And you will work to temper yourself?:.

“I will go wherever you go.” Skywarp hesitated. 

.:And?:.

“And...”

.:Will you let Flatline evaluate you? Try to find the source of your pain?:.

Skywarp squirmed. “I really, _really_ don't wanna do that.”

.:Very well. But I do think the cessation of your pain is the first step. How can you think clearly when all you do is hurt?:. 

“I dunno.” Skywarp grabbed the sides of his helm. “I think the vents help.”

.:Are we in agreement, then? You _do_ understand what I mean?:.

“Yeah. Yes. To both.”

.:Is there anything you want of me? Say so now:.

Skywarp gave him a pained look. “I just want you to be with me. And happy. And I hope you get your face soon.” His field was earnest and forthright. 

Mirage was touched by the sentiment. .:Thank you:. He extended his hand. .:So, we are in agreement?:.

Skywarp took his hand and kissed it.

.:One traditionally shakes, but I shall accept this in lieu:. Mirage projected a smile. Skywarp smiled back. .:Then we are a team. Moving forward, we will work together and support each other:.

“Always.”

A sudden thought struck Mirage. .:Please, continue on to Spreem's for the labor trade. I have a question for Flatline about my new face. I shall be along in a moment:.

Skywarp's field thrummed with doubt. Mirage pushed him gently towards Spreem's shop.

.:I won't be long. Please, go ahead. And be polite! Spreem is... different. But important:.

Skywarp gave him a skeptical look but headed over. Mirage waited until he entered the restaurant, then returned to the body shop.

Flatline's finials flicked up in surprise. “Honeymoon over already?”

.:Nothing of the sort has occurred. Rather, I have a question for you:.

Flatline set the light monitor he had been working with aside. He gave Mirage his full attention. “What?”

Mirage looked away. He inwardly chastised himself for not thinking further ahead than the question itself. But it had _just_ occurred to him and he _needed_ to know. How could he phrase this?

.:In regards to my new face...:.

~~

Skywarp had no idea what to expect from Spreem's restaurant. He certainly did not expect the smell of burning food to hit him upon entering. He wrinkled his nose and took in the room at a glance. Two Camiens were laboring in the partially remodeled space. Their fields were weird- he knew they weren't Cybertronian right away. The strong Camien was snapping flooring together. The weak Camien was sticking different colored stuff to the wall. 

Iacon was a very different place now. Just walking down the street he was guaranteed to feel and see all kinds of strange mechs. He'd felt other types of colonists' fields, too. Some of them were _very_ weird.

“Mirage?” A low voice called from the kitchen.

The strong Camien glanced at Skywarp. “No,” she called back. “It's someone else.”

“A customer?!” A stout, ugly Autobot came running from the kitchen. Skywarp nearly burst out laughing. He had an entire visor for a face! Only Mirage's request that Skywarp be polite kept his mouth shut. The ugly Autobot bounced on his tread feet, waving something in his hand. “Who're you? Did Flatline send you?” 

“Are you Spreem?”

“Yeah!”

“Heh. I'm Skywarp. Yeah, Flatline sent me. Labor trade or whatever.” 

“Great!” Spreem shoved the thing at Skywarp. Skywarp took it. “Try it!”

It was a... pastry? Skywarp turned the thing around. It was soft and roughly circular. One side was plain and the other was split down the middle with two different colors of sticky glaze, blue and pink. Skywarp shrugged and bit down on the pink half. The pastry was stuffed with some kind of jelly. He chewed, eyeing the pink stuff oozing out onto his hand.

Spreem's visor bubbled. “You're supposed to bite it down the middle!”

“Why?” Skywarp made a face. “This tastes terri-”

_boomf!_

Skywarp stumbled backwards. The thing had _exploded_ in his mouth- not painfully, but it surprised him. He spat it out and coughed. “What the hell!” He glared at Spreem.

“It's a blasttrap pastry,” said the weak Camien. “You're supposed to bite it down the middle. The two flavors have to mix. Otherwise it explodes.”

“Who the fuck thought _that_ was a good idea?!”

“Rich people!” said Spreem. “They're the ones that invented delicacies.”

“It's delicious when you eat it right,” said the strong Camien. “Try it again!” 

“No!” Skywarp shoved the blasttrap pastry towards Spreem.

“Aww.” Spreem pushed it back. “C'mon! Try it right!”

“No!”

“I'll count it towards your labor loan! 1%!”

Skywarp narrowed his eyes. He snatched the pastry back and shoved the whole thing in his mouth. He chewed loudly, hoping it wouldn't explode his head off.

It didn't. As soon as the two jellies hidden inside mixed, they formed a delicious flavor he'd never had before. 

“What do you think?” asked Spreem, bouncing with excitement.

Skywarp smacked his lips as annoyingly as he could. “It's okay.”

“Just okay?!” Spreem's visor looked hurt. Somehow.

“Yeah. Pretty good.” Skywarp licked his fingers. “Well, 1% down.” He glanced around the room. The Camiens were putting things together in an organized fashion. “I'm good at ripping stuff apart. You got any stuff that needs to be ripped apart?”

“Flashflux did all that already,” said Spreem, pointing to the strong Camien. She waved.

“What do you need done?” Skywarp looked at the ceiling. It had been freshly painted. Damn, he was good at painting. “I'm fast at getting stuff. Real fast.”

Spreem's visor bubbled. “The furniture is ready. Can you get that?”

“Yeah. Where is it?”

“Uhhh...” Spreem looked around the room. Or, at least, that's how Skywarp interpreted the tilting of his visor.

“The coordinates,” said Skywarp impatiently. “Give me the location.”

 _“Uhhh...”_

The weak Camien rattled off a series of numbers. Skywarp snapped to attention. He studied her. He was pretty sure she was some kind of satellite. Satellite mechs were _weird_. “You got confirmation of payment?”

“Oh yeah.” Spreem pulled a data sheet from a subspace compartment. “Here.”

“Finally.” Skywarp snatched it from Spreem's hand and disappeared.

It didn't take long to find the store owner and give him the data sheet. Skywarp recognized him from a skirmish a few thousand years ago. And he sure recognized Skywarp. He gathered the furniture together right away. Skywarp warped it back in three trips.

As he rematerialized the third time, he found a waiting audience. The two Camiens were staring at him, shock in their fields. Mirage was there, sorting colored stuff beside the weak Camien. And Spreem was bouncing from foot to foot, visor bubbling madly.

“Here's all your stuff,” said Skywarp. He pushed stacks of shiny chairs and tables to the far side of the room.

“How did you _do_ that?!” yelled the strong Camien.

Skywarp grinned at her and flashed his biolights. The pattern he used was Cybertronian for a prideful expression, but he knew it was Camien for something risque. He hadn't figured out exactly _what_ yet, but he'd seen a couple fights start over it. “I'm fuckin' awesome.”

The Camiens stepped back. The weak one looked away from him.

.:Skywarp:. Mirage projected a smile. Skywarp's spark melted a little tiny bit. Mirage turned to the Camiens. .:Flashflux, Solarray. This is my-:. he paused. .:This is someone very important to me. Skywarp has a special ability. He can move instantly through space-:.

Skywarp tuned out the rest of the explanation. Mirage had paused. Mirage wasn't sure what to call him. Sure, they weren't conjunxes, but they were _something_. Maybe Mirage still didn't remember how he used to introduce Skywarp, on the very rare occasions that he did. _This is my beloved companion._

A flare of pain went through him. Skywarp grimaced inwardly. Why wasn't the pain going away? Mirage was _right there._ Skywarp had stuck by him as much as possible. But the pain remained. It wasn't fucking fair. And what Mirage had said earlier, that wasn't fair, either. And that _other_ thing he'd said had shot a pang of white-hot fear right through him. _I will not go forward with you..._ The plating on Skywarp's wings rustled.

.:-warp?:.

“Huh?” Skywarp looked over.

.:Spreem said there are some other things you could get. He wants to know how much weight you can warp:.

 _You used to know that._ “Depends. Usually about fifteen times my own weight,” said Skywarp. He sent a burst of data over the public frequencies. It was faster than explaining with words how density and size factored in.

Spreem studied the numbers for a while, then presented Skywarp with more data sheets. “Here,” he said. “Go get these.”

Skywarp shuffled through them, looking for location information or coordinates. He heard Mirage and the weak Camien talking to each other in Old Cybertronian. Or, at least, Mirage was. The weak Camien spoke with a strange accent, maybe even a dialect. Skywarp squinted, trying to understand what they were saying.

He'd never been very good at languages. 

He stood around flipping the data sheets, listening. The weak Camien didn't seem to like him. She kept saying “mech of deception” and “brute” and “dangerous-sparkless-(something).” Mirage was using very elegant language to describe... something about supportive roles. Skywarp listened for as long as he thought he could without looking suspicious, then warped away.

When he returned again, Quickmix was there. The red and white Autobot flung himself back. He threw a hand over his mixer and screamed, “what the fuck!”

Skywarp laughed and dumped his cargo on the floor.

“Disappearing and reappearing with no warning,” said Quickmix, glaring between Skywarp and Mirage. “You're a real pair of weirdos.” 

.:That's quite the statement to make, coming from the authority:. sent Mirage.

“Yeah, well... shut up.” Quickmix handed Mirage a bowl of something Skywarp couldn't quite see. “This is the latest batch. They came out real nice. I tasted a sliver.”

Mirage plucked one of the things and held it up. 

Skywarp's field flashed with surprise. It was a _crystal_ , a beautiful blue crystal that sparkled and shone just like the ones in the old garden. Just like the ones Mirage used to love and collect. Skywarp immediately wanted one so _he_ could present it to Mirage. “Where did you get those!”

“I made them,” said Quickmix.

“Oh.” Damn. Skywarp entertained the idea of warping into the little Autobot's shop and stealing a bunch, but that probably wouldn't fall under Mirage's definition of 'being better.' Skywarp was wary of breaking the rules of their agreement so early on.

Quickmix was staring at him.

“You got a problem?” Skywarp flared his wings out.

“No, no problem.” Quickmix stepped closer, tentatively, as if Skywarp were a rabid turbofox. “It's just... your biolights. That's a rare color.”

“Hell yeah, it is.” Skywarp flashed them and raised his ocular ridges at Mirage. Unfortunately, his partner did not notice. He was engrossed in sorting colorful chunks of garbage.

Quickmix touched a biolight on Skywarp's forearm. “What would you take as payment for a sample?”

“What?!” Skywarp snatched his arm away. “I ain't no test subject!”

 _“Yeesh,”_ said Quickmix. “Fine. But you could make some real money doing a little bleeding.” His eyes flashed. “And I'd prefer to be the recipient. I can make it painless. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Skywarp glared at him as he exited. “I think I'm done here.” He strode over to Mirage and grabbed his hand. He kissed it. The weak Camien watched him warily. “I'm gonna do a different kind of labor trade. Be back later.”

.:Alright:. 

_“He is very possessive,”_ the weak Camien said to Mirage in her accented Old Cybertronian. _“His field is dangerous. Has he ever hurt you? Do you feel safe with him?”_

Skywarp turned to her. In Old Cybertronian he said, _“I have loved him for longer than you have been alive! I would plunge my fingers into my eyes and rip out my own brain before I would let harm fall upon him!”_

Her biolights blinked and all the blue panels on her body angled inwards. Her hand froze in midair.

 _“Mechs of deception are brutes. But in strength only! We are cunning! How dare you accuse me of abuse before my lover! Were it not for a promise I made this very day, I would harm you for it! Do not mistake those without highest-born tongues for those who have no tongues.”_ Skywarp wasn't sure he had said all that correctly. But he figured he got the meaning across. 

Mirage, holo face calm and field pulled in, was unreadable. The weak Camien stared at him. Before either could respond, he left.

VOP!!

~~

“He sure is... efficient,” said Flatline, finials out in near-awe.

.:Indeed:.

The two mechs looked at the pile of dismembered feet in the middle of the shop. All shapes and sizes, each cleanly severed at the ankle. Skywarp had gone _somewhere_ and was sending feet through subspace faster than they could analyze them. Flatline had called Mirage back to the shop once the pile became knee-deep.

Now it was shoulder height. _Flatline's_ shoulder.

Mirage picked up the next one and, using a portable blow torch, cut three slits along the sole. He pried the sole back and severed a tiny piece of the innermost workings, as Flatline had instructed. The outside of a mech's foot was prone to change over their lifetime, but the innermost workings were often original; due to their intricacy, it was easier to keep/repair them than mold a full replacement. Mirage inserted the piece into the spectrograph. When the machine finished its evaluation, Mirage navigated its screens to organize the data and determine the owner's place of birth. .:Forged. The Hallowed Heights of Vos:.

“Damn,” said Flatline. He said it every time. And every time he did, Mirage felt a tiny pang of sorrow for him.

Which surprised him, a bit. But, he supposed, he knew what it was like to miss a part of oneself. Mirage couldn't help but empathize a little.

Speaking of surprises, Mirage had definitely _not_ been expecting Skywarp's outburst in Old Cybertronian. Mirage liked Solarray. She had been concerned for Mirage... and then mightily embarrassed by Skywarp's reveal that he had understood everything she had been saying about him. Mirage shook his head. The Camien had needed a lot of reassurances after that. And Skywarp... he hadn't had a chance to talk to Skywarp since.

Flatline's voice interrupted his thoughts. “Hmph. I think this is for you.” 

.:Hmm?:. 

Flatline handed Mirage a red foot. 

Mirage turned it. .:What do you mean- oh:. 

Scratched into the paint, in the worst handwriting he had ever seen, was **HEy BaBE**.

“He shouldn't do that,” said Flatline, his finials lowering. “It's disrespectful.”

.:Indeed:. Mirage stifled the amusement in his field and tossed the foot onto the pile.

A few minutes later, Flatline made an irritated sound and threw another foot to Mirage. This one said **HEYYYYYYYyYYYYYyyYYYYYYyyyYYYyyy** all the way around its edges. 

Another minute later Flatline's field flashed with extreme irritation. He threw a foot down and tilted his head. “Skywarp!” he shouted into his comm. “Stop maiming the dead! … Yes, I mean the words! Why are you-”

Mirage tuned him out, bent, and picked up the foot.

**IS FLaTLiNE MaD YET**

With an inward smile, he set the foot aside for categorizing.

One of the monitors chimed softly. Mirage flickered his holo face on. The door opened. 

“Sup, glitches.”

“Hey.”

.:Ugh:.

“Love you too, Mirage,” said Quickmix, his eyes flashing with a grin. “It's your lucky day, sweetie.”

.:Oh:. Mirage sent the comm in the most bored, uninterested tone he could muster.

“Your face is ready.”

Mirage's field sparked happily. .:Oh!:.

“I need you to come over so we can do an important test.” Quickmix poked the foot pile. “Won't take long.”

Mirage turned his holo face towards Flatline, pain clearly evident in its expression.

“Sure you can't do it here?” asked Flatline. He pulled another foot from subspace. 

“Nope.” Quickmix waggled his orbital ridges. 

Flatline looked at Mirage. “Go with him. He'll behave.” He narrowed his eyes at Quickmix, his finials moving in a complex pattern.

Quickmix made a placating gesture and blinked. They were having a comm'd conversation.

“Yeah, yeah,” Quickmix finally said aloud. “C'mon, sweetheart. It'll be quick.”

With one last look of regret, Mirage followed him out.

The Iaconian night was cool. Its dirty air swirled around them. Quickmix put his shoulder against the door of The Metalpothecary and shoved. “Doesn't work right anymore.” The door slid aside just far enough to allow Quickmix to shove his fingers into the space. He pulled it the rest of the way open. “After you.”

The interior was dark. Mirage hesitated. .:I cannot see very well. I would prefer to go in after a light has been switched on:.

Quickmix rolled his eyes and pushed past him. After a few seconds, the interior lit up. Mirage stepped through the threshold.

The place was a mess. The walls were plastered with reference posters, themselves covered in scrawled marker. The counters were laden with dirty metal and glass vessels. A bank of furnaces hummed on the far wall, their heat warming Mirage's plating even from a distance. Piles of containers were strewn around, many of them labeled in Flatline's careful hand. 

Quickmix led him to a table. Small buckets of hardened glass were crowded on the floor beneath it. The table was strewn with broken glass, open containers of sand and powders, and the biohazard box that contained Mirage's original face. There were many small, intricate tools scattered between the containers. A soft, blue cloth lay on the table, folded over itself.

Mirage peered into the biohazard box. .:I thought you had to put it back together?:.

“I did,” said Quickmix. “Fit it together like a puzzle for the scan. With no glue. Wanted to keep the glass pure. But who cares about that old one.” He unfolded the blue cloth. Beneath was a perfectly clear, smooth copy of Mirage's face.

.:Oh!:.

Quickmix's chest rotated faster. “Here it is,” he said. Using the cloth, he carefully raised the glass face up to the light.

.:It's beautiful!:.

“Clear enough for ya?”

Mirage inspected it. The glass wasn't yellow. It didn't have any of the strange black and gray blotches the previous prototype had had. .:As far as I can tell, it is perfectly clear:.

“It is 99.82% clear,” said Quickmix. “The small structures inside it bend a very small amount of light as it passes through.”

.:Oh. Well, that's alright:.

Quickmix snorted. “I'm glad you approve, cuz it ain't getting any better than that.” He handed the cloth to Mirage. “First, make sure you can still turn it invisible.”

.:I can render any object I hold invisible-:.

“Yeah, yeah. But just in case. I don't need you breaking into my bedroom in the middle of the night to assassinate me cuz this face is the _one_ object in the entire universe that somehow doesn't jive with your outlier ability.”

.:I'm not an _assassin_ :. Mirage took the cloth. He held up the face. It felt solid but not heavy.

He disappeared.

Quickmix blinked. “I was expecting it and it still surprised me. Amazing. What did you do to get that power, sweetheart?”

Mirage reappeared. .:I was forged this way. I did nothing to deserve it:.

“Hmph.” Quickmix took the cloth from him. “How am I supposed to duplicate that?”

Mirage ignored his question. .:I could've done this demonstration at Flatline's shop:. 

“Yeah. But maybe I wanted to get you alone,” said Quickmix.

Mirage stepped back, raising his arms in a defensive position. .:I'll have you know I am not a stranger to a fight!:.

“Oh, relax,” said Quickmix. “I didn't want Skywarp getting all up in your shit while I did this next thing, alright?”

.:What next thing?:.

Quickmix wiped his fingers on a sterile cloth. “I gotta put this in your helm and hook you up to a thing real quick. Make sure it works.”

Mirage let his wariness permeate his field.

Quickmix handed him a mirror. “Hold this.”

.:What? Why-:.

“You're gonna like this,” said Quickmix. “I'll bet my own aft. You're gonna love this face more than your old one.”

.:That is _highly_ unlikely:.

“Bend your helm forward,” said Quickmix.

After a moment's hesitation, Mirage did so. Quickmix slipped the glass face into his helm. He pushed it gently until it popped into place. 

“Okay, this is the only tricky part.” He slipped a few slender wires from a wall-mounted machine between Mirage's helm and the face. “This is going to simulate your connections.”

.:This has also been done at Flatline's-:.

“Trust me!” said Quickmix. He pushed Mirage's arm up so the mirror was level to his face. “Just look in the mirror!”

Quickmix pushed a button. The patchwork machine on the wall, made of tarnished parts scavenged from who knew where, clunked. 

Mirage felt a stinging sensation across his whole face. It prickled for a few seconds, then faded to a very faint buzz. Mirage wrinkled his nose in discomfort.

Then he _stared_ into the mirror.

Quickmix's field flashed with excitement. “Yes!”

Mirage's jaw dropped, and his mouth opened with it. He scrunched up his face. He smiled. He shut his eyelids. The light of his eyes scattered and bent along the curves of his face as he moved, just like it always had in the past. .:I can feel it! It's working!:.

“Yes! I told you!” Quickmix slapped the table. Sand and tiny instruments bounced. “Now I want you to do something you've never done before.”

.:What's that?:. Mirage pursed his lips. .:I'll have a tongue, right? This has no tongue. Or teeth:.

“Yes, yes. Those are already done. They're nowhere near as complex as the face. Mirage! Focus.” Quickmix turned a dial on the machine. 

Mirage's face twitched and a cool sensation came over it. .:What did you do?:.

“I want you to imagine your glass face with paint on it,” said Quickmix.

.:What? _Why?:._

“Just do it.”

.:Fine:. Mirage stared into the mirror, imagining the silvery white color he had been using for the past few million years. To his utter astonishment, the glass lost its transparency. His reflection sharpened into focus. His face was a smooth, silvery white. His eyes widened. His mouth opened. .:What is this?!:.

“This is my fuckin' genius at work,” said Quickmix smugly. “I've built the glass so that it responds to specific processor demands with polarization. The dead sensors in your previous face were discarded, so there was enough room to build in the polarizable aspects at a level not detectable to the naked eye.”

.:What?:. Mirage shut his eyes. .:Oh! Dark!:.

“You don't need paint anymore, Mirage! You said the most important thing to you was being able to choose whether your face was clear or not. And I think putting paint on a glass face is fucking stupid, so I made the glass so you can _choose its opacity_ whenever you want. Any shade from white to black. No color, but any gray you can imagine.” Quickmix turned the dial. “Think of something darker. Flatline's plating.”

Mirage concentrated. His face darkened smoothly. The yellow of his eyes was enhanced. He turned his helm in the shop's light, letting it play across his features. .:Oh! Oh, I am _beautiful!:._

“Usually I'd smack a mech for saying that, but yeah, you are.” Quickmix pointed to the machine. “This device is acting as a go-between for your body and the sensors, since your blood vessels aren't hooked up yet. It's some tricky biophysics shit. Flatline doesn't have this machine. I built it myself for this project.”

.:Oh, Quickmix! I take back every horrid thing I thought about you!:.

“Not _every_ horrid thing, I hope. Oh, that reminds me.” He fiddled with the machine. “Can you smell anything?”

.:No, I don't- ghhkkh:. The comm ended in static. Mirage's hand flew up to cover his nose. _.:What the hell is that!:._

Quickmix laughed. “Yeah, it works. Smelting products and hydrochloric acid and all kindsa sulfuric shit. I'll spare you.” Quickmix poked at the machine some more and Mirage's olfactory sense faded.

Mirage turned his helm this way and that, running his face through a silvery rainbow at will, admiring himself in the mirror. .:This is fantastic work! How did you come up with this?:.

“Spreem's failed magic treat things,” said Quickmix. He held up a plate of the treats, half melted from the heat of the shop. “The general idea of something that's clear becoming not-clear due to the presence of liquid. And vice versa. Engex for the treats, blood for your face.”

 _Astounding,_ thought Mirage. _And if I hadn't given Spreem that recipe~!_

.:I am _so_ pleased with this. _So pleased._ :.

“Mmm, I've finally _pleased_ you.” Quickmix arched an orbital ridge. “Don't tell Skywarp.”

.:Hmph. What are _you_ getting out of this, Quickmix? Besides euphemisms:.

Quickmix laughed. “You kidding? I'm gonna market the hell outta this! I haven't even had time to mix this tech with the biolight projects I've been working on. I'm hoping I can get it to do colors, not just black and white, in the future.” He took the mirror from Mirage.

Mirage frowned. .:I wasn't done yet!:.

“Yeah, but I am. There's just a few more things to do and this'll be ready for installation. You could probably get it installed tomorrow. Hold still.” Quickmix undid the wires. The faint buzz in Mirage's face disappeared, and then Quickmix was wrapping it up in cloth again. “Your project made Flatline very happy,” he said. “And that's important to me.”

.:What? But we haven't found birth metal that matches his yet:.

“Oh, he didn't tell you?” Quickmix squinted at Mirage. “Never mind, then.”

.:What do you mean?:. Quickmix didn't answer. .:What did you mean, just now? Have _you_ found some?:.

“No. Don't worry about it,” said Quickmix. “You know how he is. I just take comfort in the fact that I'm one of the only mechs in the universe who has seen his spark.”

_.:What?:._

“Nothing. Get out. I'll message Flatline with the results, though I expect you'll blab it right away. Go.” Quickmix pushed him towards the broken door.

.:I'm going, I'm going!:.

Outside The Metalpothecary, Mirage held a piece of broken glass up to his eyes. He hadn't had time to choosily pick one from the biohazard box while invisible. But this one would do. Slightly ovoid with sharp edges. He was certain Flatline could dull them down. He tucked it into a subspace compartment.

Mirage returned to the body shop. Flatline was absolutely swamped with feet and yelling over his comm. Mirage could almost hear Skywarp's laughter from the other side. Almost.

He remembered how it felt to smile. _Really_ smile. Not the whisper of a holo smile accompanied by the proper biolight blinks and field pulses. Not the memory of a smile found in dreams. A real, _glass_ smile. He held it tight in his spark as he continued his work.


	23. Thinkin'

Mirage sat up straight on the dais, invisible, hands in his lap. Light monitors hovered around him. Unease prickled across his plating. Anxiety turned his spark. It had been a while since the last time he had gone invisible. There was no fire. Yet.

A very distracting memory was playing in the back of his mind. The recovery program, still chugging through his processor, had picked the _most_ inopportune time to remember this particular scene. Mirage shook his head, willing the thick fields and sensual sounds to clear away. They were a stark contrast to the unease building inside him.

He looked around the room again. Flatline, standing at the consoles. Skywarp, lying on the floor. The walls and ceiling and cabinets all in their proper places. Still no fire. Mirage hunched into himself, preparing for its inevitable arrival.

Flatline's finials were up, alert and interested. “Doing okay?”

“Been better,” said Skywarp.

“Not _you.”_

.:I feel fine:.

Skywarp moaned. He was covered in blood and shards of metal. The mountain of severed feet towered next to him. He stretched his wings across the floor until they brushed against it. He squinted at the dais.

“No hallucinations?” asked Flatline.

Mirage looked around. .:Not yet:.

“Good.” Flatline tapped a monitor. “Your vitals _are_ registering stress. Slowly building.”

Skywarp moaned louder.

“Quiet. You're not injured,” said Flatline. 

“As far as _you_ know,” said Skywarp. He groaned and heaved himself up to a sitting position. “You didn't even look at me.”

“You're fine,” said Flatline, not looking at him.

There was a flicker. The room wavered with heat distortion. The sensual memory faded as orange lit up the walls. Mirage grimaced inwardly. .:It's here:.

Skywarp and Flatline both snapped their heads towards the dais, though only Skywarp saw Mirage. His shoulders were hunched and legs drawn up protectively. He gripped one hand tightly in the other. His helm moved back and forth as he peered around the room.

.:Flames. A ring of them around me, pressing in:.

A finial flipped up. Flatline's fingers flew over the light monitors.

Skywarp stood. He wiped his bloodied hands on his bloodied sides and walked to Mirage.

“Don't interrupt the process,” snapped Flatline.

“But he's _scared,”_ Skywarp snapped back. 

.:I'm alright:. Mirage forced himself up into good posture again. It would take a while for him to get used to the idea that Skywarp could see him when no one else could. .:I can smell the smoke:.

Flatline nodded. “Your sensing centers are active.”

.:The flames are getting closer:. Mirage watched Skywarp stroll through the fire, completely unaffected by its presence. It threw yellow light across his dark plating. .:I can feel its heat-:.

“Skywarp!” Flatline's field flared with annoyance. “Get _away_ from him.”

“No.” Skywarp stood next to the dais, squinting. He put his hand on Mirage's shoulder. Mirage was shaking.

.:I'm alright:. Mirage touched Skywarp's hand. It was heavy and comforting. A tiny bit of the anxiety in his chest evaporated. .:They're quite close, Flatline. I would _really_ like to return to visibility:. A wave a fear rippled from him and he pulled his field in tight. Skywarp frowned.

“Go ahead.” Flatline tapped the light monitor. “Maybe _next_ time we can get some uncompromised data.”

Mirage reappeared. He slumped, a substitute sigh of relief. Skywarp squeezed his shoulder. Mirage flicked his holo face on. He projected a slight smile at Skywarp.

Skywarp smiled back.

Flatline snapped and the light monitors floated over to him. 

.:What have you determined, Flatline?:.

His finials moved in little scowling circles. “Stress rose slowly over time. It took seven minutes and 37 seconds for the flames to appear, at which point your stress response increased in severity. There was a plateau when Skywarp touched you, and then a sudden drop when you reappeared.”

Skywarp grinned. “I _helped.”_

“No,” said Flatline. “You _interfered._ Mirage, you're leveling out to pre-test numbers now.”

Mirage nodded. .:I feel alright:. He glanced at his shoulder. Then at Skywarp.

“Uh. Heh. Sorry.” Skywarp tried to brush the blood off Mirage's shoulder but only succeeded in smearing more on. “Dammit.”

“Skywarp, get out of here. Go get cleaned up.” Flatline braced himself for the inevitable argument, but Skywarp just nodded.

“Yeah. Okay.”

VOP!!

Flatline blinked and Mirage forcefully reset his eyes. .:I do wish he would warn us before doing that:.

“Yeah. At least he's gone. Shall we repeat the test?”

.:I would prefer not to:. Mirage slid gracefully off the dais. .:If it must be done again, perhaps tomorrow?:.

Flatline's displeasure was evident in his narrowed eyes, but he said, “okay.” He retrieved a towel and threw it to Mirage.

.:Thank you:. Mirage wiped his shoulder clean. .:What percentage of the labor loan has Skywarp worked off? Can you estimate?:.

Flatline studied the mountain of feet. “About 245%, conservatively estimated.”

Happiness sparked through Mirage's field. .:Then we are settled!:.

“Yeah.” Flatline nodded. “Yeah, I think you're good. I mean, technically, I owe _you_ now.” His finials moved in a complicated pattern. “I dislike being indebted.”

Mirage projected a smile. .:I am certain we can reach an _agreement_ of some kind:.

One finial went back. “Hrmm.”

Mirage's projected smile smoothed into a frown. .:What does the test indicate, Flatline? You told me only the results. But what do they mean?:.

Flatline sat and pulled a light monitor towards him. “The memory restoration is going very slowly. It hasn't done anything to address the issues causing your hallucinations. Scans indicate it has broken few of the harmful links in your processor.” Flatline sighed. “I really don't know much about that field of medicine. I can take a lot of different kinds of measurements and extrapolate, but I'm sure there are fundamentals I'm missing. Patterns that a professional could identify and work with. I think you would benefit from going to someone who knows what they're talking about.”

.:I see:. Mirage took a seat next to Flatline. .:I had hoped the procedure would alleviate some of the... other issues:.

“Me too. It might just take more time than anticipated. It's only been a few days.” Flatline regarded Mirage with a raised finial. “Or... it occurs to me that being in proximity to Skywarp, whose field is incredibly powerful, might be affecting you somehow.”

.:Oh:.

“Or not. I have no idea. It's a complex situation, the way you're linked.” He tilted his head. “Do you think continued interaction with Skywarp will help you? Answer honestly.”

Mirage thought. .:I think there isn't much of a choice. He is _the_ link to what I'm missing. I am not afraid of him. I do not think I'm in danger with him...:. He recalled the sensual memory and clamped down on his field. .:I think there is great potential for a beneficial partnership. We have already agreed to move forward together with each others' best interests in mind:.

“Hrmm.”

As they watched, the light monitor generated a graph. Flatline made an amused noise.

.:What?:.

“Well, if all else fails, you can use Skywarp as a deterrent.” Flatline pointed to the graph. “See, here's where he touched you. It calmed you. Not enough to make the hallucination go away, but who knows what would have happened if the test had continued.”

.:Oh:.

“I don't anticipate that you will recover fully in the next week. However, Skywarp has more than paid off what your stay here for that time would be worth. Your face is ready for installation. Would you like to wait and see if your condition improves or install it tomorrow?”

.:Oh!:. Mirage's field sparked with happiness. .:I should like very much to have it tomorrow!:. 

Flatline nodded. “Thought you'd say that. I'm gonna send this data to my acquaintance. I don't anticipate you getting any _worse_ ; you would've presented with deteriorating symptoms by now. We'll take one last night of pre-face recordings and install it tomorrow morning. We'll monitor you for another night after that. Assuming nothing goes wrong, you can walk outta here the day after. Though I'd want you to check in every week or so for the next few months. Are you planning on staying in Iacon?”

.:I... I think so. Unless my search for justice takes me off planet. I don't anticipate it will do that:.

“Good. Then it won't be a chore to come back for check ups.”

.:Indeed:. Mirage touched his holo face. It fizzed against his fingertips. .:I can't believe soon I won't need this!:.

“Yeah! Big moment coming up. I'm excited to see how it all works together.” Flatline glanced at one of the monitors. “You should also see your energy expenditure become more efficient. Speaking of which.” Flatline grabbed a couple cans of energon. “Drink up.”

.:Thank you:. Mirage retrieved his adaptor and drank. He nearly dropped the second can as a flash of light burst through the shop.

VOP!!

“Yo,” said Skywarp. He grinned.

Flatline's missiles shifted. “Someday you're going to do that and I'm going to fire at you.”

Skywarp shrugged. “I can warp faster than you can fire.”

“Oh _really-”_

.:Please, let's not test any potentially lethal hypotheses here:. Mirage downed the fuel and flicked his holo face back on. .:Are there any other measurements you wish to take tonight, Flatline?:.

“No. Just the usuals while you recharge.”

Skywarp sauntered over to Mirage. He had washed the blood from his plating, pulled the shards of dead metal out, and splashed a cheap coating on. It was extra glossy. _Extremely_ tacky. Mirage could almost smell it. He stared at the biolights in Skywarp's torso. Their unique reddish-purple _shimmered_ under the cheap gloss. The biolights were in different places than the frame in Mirage's memories. They led the eye directly down to-

“Like what you see?” Skywarp asked, giving him a wicked grin.

.:Ah- uh-:.

“I recognize the quivering in your field. The little movements of your plating.” Skywarp ran a finger along Mirage's holo jaw. “I know what you're thinking about.”

Mirage _yanked_ his field in. The holo face flickered. .:Uh-:.

“Skywarp!” Flatline's finials swung back, deeply unamused. “Stop harassing my patient. And my senses. Get outta here.”

“I'm not leaving him.”

“Yes, you are. I told you, you could only stay one night. Two nights ago.”

Skywarp pointed at the mountain of feet. “That not enough for you?”

“It's plenty. But this isn't a hotel.” Flatline crossed his arms. “Mirage has a few more nights of observation. Tomorrow he'll get his new face. Once he's _released_ from my care, you can parasitize him all you like.”

“I'm not leaving him! How many times do I have to tell you that-”

“Why don't you ask him what _he_ wants?” Flatline said, shaking his head.

Skywarp turned to Mirage. He took his hand. “Don't you want me here?”

.:I-:. Mirage looked from Flatline to Skywarp. .:I do want you here. But I also think it's best to do what Flatline says, regarding medical matters:. He patted Skywarp's hand. .:You know I'm safe. There's no need for you to worry:.

Skywarp grimaced. A bit of pain flared out and he reeled it in. “I'm not worried. I wanna _be_ with you.”

.:I know. But you can come back tomorrow morning:.

Skywarp frowned. Flatline glared at him. “Fine,” Skywarp said. He hugged Mirage and kissed the top of his helm. Skywarp addressed him on their private frequency. .:I love you:.

.:Oh-:. Mirage didn't know what to say. He couldn't say it truthfully back. As he fretted over an appropriate response, Skywarp stepped away from him.

VOP!! 

Skywarp reappeared next to the refrigerated cabinet. He pulled out a few drinks.

“Hey-” started Flatline, but before he could stop him, Skywarp gave him a sarcastic salute, winked at Mirage, and disappeared.

VOP!!

“What a jackass,” muttered Flatline, blinking.

Mirage stifled the mirth in his field. .:Rude, definitely:.

~~

Skywarp reappeared above the city. He reclined on nothing, popped open one of the drinks, and took a swig. He grimaced. Non-intoxicating. What kinda clinic was Flatline running??

“Eh.” He downed the drink, then another, and turned slowly in midair to look down on the city. It sprawled like a busted brain; filamentous streets flowing out from the bright skyscraper core into the darker habitat areas. He squinted at the mass graves and _other_ locations he'd broken into just hours ago for the metal harvesting. There were extra lights and sirens and shit going on there now. He grinned to himself.

Iacon wasn't as beautiful as _his_ city had been. Not even as good as _old_ Iacon. But pretty good for something that got stomped on every few months. He held his fingers up to one eye and pinched the tower Starscream lived in. “Gotcha.” 

Mirage's words echoed in his processor. _I would like a promise from you..._

Skywarp had some thinkin' to do.

During the war thinking wasn't encouraged, but he'd sneak around and do it anyway while no one was looking. Things always worked out better if everyone thought you were an idiot (but you really weren't).

Snippets of Megatron's speeches floated through Skywarp's mind. They'd all started out so good. Skywarp had agreed with and embraced the Decepticon message. Then, over time, the speeches changed. Little by little. It was not just, _you should have a right to this,_ but, _you deserve this._ Then it became, _you deserve this because you are **better** than they are._ Then, _you are better **and** more powerful, so you should have control._

_Strength is the only thing that matters._

_Take what is yours! **Destroy everyone who stands in your way!**_

Some of those speeches had been really riveting.

_That you will be better from now on..._

Skywarp frowned. Those speeches weren't what he was supposed to be thinking about. He slowly rotated in the air, ignoring the city and the stars as they appeared cyclically around him.

He thought back to his pre-war time with Mirage. What _had_ he been like? Back then, things were simple in a different way. You did as you were told. Skywarp was told to deliver freight, so he delivered freight. But that's how the war was, too. You did as you were told. If Megatron said, “go there,” you went there. Skywarp was pretty damn loyal, especially for a Decepticon. He did what he was told. Most of the time. And it was fun.

Destroying all those disgusting organics, metalliterriforming their ugly worlds into shiny metal beacons of civilization. Skywarp knew he was better than them. He deserved what they had. He had the strength, the firepower. Why _shouldn't_ what was theirs be his instead? Squishing organics' heads and shooting Autobots in the back. Now _that_ was fun.

_But perhaps you did not care..._

Duh. Obviously, before the war, murder was wrong. But war was war. And murder was okay. And productive. And not hauling fucking freight or being abused by the Academy or aching for the one person in the entire universe who could make him feel better-

No, wait, he _had_ ached during the war. And he was still aching now. But it would go away soon. It had to. Mirage was finally his again...

_If you want us to move forward together, than you need to change..._

Mirage had always been a _little_ selfish- always wanted Skywarp to revolve around him. And the Decepticon cause had given Skywarp something _else_ to center around when Mirage had left. It had been the sutures for that deep, deep wound.

Mirage wanted him to fundamentally change how he saw himself and his place- no longer in the position of demanding and taking what he felt was rightfully his. No longer asserting his superiority and making up for everything pre-war society, the Academy, and the Autobots had taken from him.

Was it worth it? 

Mirage was basically asking him to start over as a citizen. As a- a _responsible_ mech who contributed to society. Probably. Someone who saw value in others just because they _existed._ Skywarp stifled a shudder. Someone who found fun in ways _other than_ blood and mayhem.

_The war is over. I am here._

Well... that _was_ true. It'd been a huge blow to his ego when Megatron had surrendered. And Skywarp had no idea what the hell Soundwave was doing on Jupiter, or what Galvatron's plan was, or where anyone else was. Except Thundercracker. That idiot was on Earth. But he was happy there.

Skywarp shook his head again. Concentrate!

When Flatline had said, “he doesn't know what it means to be a Decepticon,” he hadn't meant all the things that were the reasons Skywarp had joined up. He meant all the things that came _later_. The destruction. The death. The mayhem. The fun.

But the war was over now.

Mirage wanted him to be better. Mirage would leave him if he wasn't.

Pain flared out of him, unexpected and fierce. It took him back to the night Mirage had shot him and Skywarp realized he was never coming back. He'd cried so hard he had _burned his eyes._ Thundercracker had barged into the cold, empty apartment demanding to know what the hell was going on. His horrified face when he had seen Skywarp's bleeding eyes, ringed with white scars from the little whips of electricity.

Skywarp's chest tightened and his spark clenched. “Hnng. Get a fuckin' hold of yourself!” He forced the plating around his cockpit apart, willing the pain to lessen.

Fuck. 

Was it _worth_ it?

He thought of Mirage's smile, the genuine depths of his field, the way he arched and moaned in Skywarp's arms, his curiosity, his laughing at Skywarp's stupid jokes, the way he had _trusted_ all of his fragile being to Skywarp so long ago and in return gave him the greatest, happiest, most _euphoric_ years of his life-

-full of adventure and _delighting in one another_ and dancing and _fun-_

Skywarp shook himself. Of course it was worth it. Anything was. He couldn't think of a single thing that he hadn't already gone through that wouldn't be worth going through for Mirage. What the fuck was anything else after a _spark extraction?_ Pff. Someone could cut off his wings and it wouldn't hurt half as much.

Skywarp felt the tiny, empty place in his chest where the eternal light had been. Its weight, minuscule, nearly unmeasurable, but still gone. His frown deepened.

He'd... he'd get Mirage to see. He'd get Mirage to love him again. It still had to be in there, inside him. He would remember. And when he did, Skywarp would be more than ready.

…

Guess he better figure out how the hell to be better.

~

Skywarp returned to the hotel room. He'd made an arrangement with the owner and had the room for the rest of the week. He scowled at the container of cheap, glossy coating he'd put on. Its advertisements always showed unbelievably hot mechs throwing themselves at a glossy mech. Stupid coating. He'd expected Mirage would be returning with him. At least it had dried fast.

Skywarp threw himself down on the bed, spreading his wings. Beds still felt amazing to him. It'd been... centuries? Since he'd been in a real one. A damn long time.

Great place to try to relieve some of his pain. There were a few things that worked temporarily. 

Skywarp ran his hands down his cockpit. He thought of Mirage- how he'd touch and stroke every panel, trace every seam. Nibble Mirage's hip cables until he begged Skywarp for more. Mirage would slip his fingers into Skywarp's helm vents, sending shivers down his entire frame, and pull him within lips' reach. He'd revel in Skywarp's field the way no one else _could._

Mirage was the only mech who, when exposed to the length, width, breadth, and _other_ dimensions of Skywarp's field, didn't run away or shoot him or go temporarily mad. 

Skywarp moaned with loneliness and pain and frustration. His lines ebbed and flowed with heat. Tomorrow could not come soon enough. He touched the wall and the room went dark.

His biolights brightened. He looked at the one going down the side of his forearm. His biolight color... so rare it had made him a target for the light snatchers back before the war. More importantly, Mirage thought it was beautiful. _Enchanting._

An idea came to him. Skywarp grinned.

VOP!!

He reappeared in a hot room, one end of it blazing with the heat and light of furnaces. It _stank_. 

Quickmix startled, jumping back and dropping the tool he had been holding. The glass vessel in its grips shattered. “Skywarp! What the fuck!” His mixer spun and his yellow eyes flashed.

“Heh.” Skywarp looked around the room. “This place is a total shithole. Just what I imagined it'd be like.”

Quickmix scrambled at his sides and pulled a gun from subspace. “What do you want?!” He aimed the gun at Skywarp, arms shaking.

VOP!!

Skywarp appeared beside him and grabbed the gun. Quickmix screamed. Skywarp laughed. “No need for this.” He threw the gun to the floor and leaned down til his mouth was by the Autobot's audials. Quickmix made a scared little noise. “I've come to make a deal with you, Quickmix...”

~~

Mirage lay on the med bed, idly wondering how much of Spreem was watching him. Every once in a while the light monitors above him would rotate or blink. Mirage assumed they were going through routine security checks of the shop. He tried, as he did every night, to ignore them.

He thought of Skywarp and shook his head in disbelief. Skywarp had labored enough to pay for the entire procedure! More than twice over! Mirage had thought it would take him _ages_ to pay it off- that months from now he'd still be doing errands for Flatline, his debt hanging over him like a medic-shaped specter. Little dribs of 3% here, 2% there... But Skywarp had done it _all_ and spared him. And then afterwards Mirage had sent him away. He could not remember if he had even thanked Skywarp for all his work! 

How _very_ rude. Mirage resolved to find a way to express his gratitude. Skywarp certainly deserved a special gesture. Wherever he was now, he was _alone_ and probably still in pain-

Mirage caught himself. He touched his chest. 

Yes, it was genuine concern for the mech! 

Mirage steadied himself. He had noticed his emotions wavered more than usual- no surprise, given the program running through his processor. The day had been a whirlwind of yelling and confessions and labor trade and now Skywarp was away and Mirage... _missed_ him. He hadn't noticed just how pleasing that constant, twining field had been until it was gone. It filled all the spaces in the room Mirage didn't even know were empty.

Not to mention the way Skywarp had seen Mirage's discomfort during the invisibility test and acted in defiance to support him... and that his close presence had been so soothing...

Mirage shivered as another memory unlocked. They'd been unlocking all day. Most of them were inconsequential- household chores, long freelancing hours of invisibly observing sites. A few had been of the sensual variety. But this one was another of seemingly endless moments of he and Skywarp embracing. Sitting together, as they had at the cliff, and talking softly, each gently touching the other.

_“Academy's having problems with the vendor payments. I got the rest of the week off.”_

_“Oh good! I'm so glad. Let's plan something special! I shall move my appointments. What would you like to do?”_

_“I dunno. What do you wanna do?”_

_“I'm not certain.”_

The memory charmed him and he _ached_ to smile. It was so mundane, so _ordinary._ So indicative of peaceful, pre-war life.

A gentle warmth spread through Mirage, a tiny echo of what he had felt in his spark-baring memory. When they had sat at the cliff together, he had felt hopeful. He had a strong ally and _the_ most important witness to the Autobot's cruel treatment of him.

But _now_ he was energized at the prospect of what Skywarp's return _truly_ meant.

They were going to _be_ together. Not just in the sense of working long hours on the quest for justice as allies. They could build a _life_ together. What had he said? His mind felt muddy as the program chugged through another memory. Something about how beautiful their previous relationship was. And at the time, the idea they could rekindle it had felt like an abstraction, a low-probability possibility.

He didn't know why; it was perfectly logical. It seemed like the natural progression of their reunion.

Another gentle wave of affection went through his frame. Mirage smiled inwardly. 

It felt like a precipice, a new start.

He ought to mark the occasion! 

.:Lights on:. Mirage sat up on the bed. He crossed the room to where he'd seen Flatline keep his polishing supplies. He ignored the monitors, two of which trailed behind him, bobbing as they recorded. He retrieved a soft cloth and some polish and got to work.


	24. Face Me

.:I am so excited!:.

“Yeah,” said Quickmix. “I thought you didn't even have a field, but there it is.”

Mirage's field flared out in happy bursts. He gripped the med bed. He looked past the clear glass of his new face, Flatline's hands, Quickmix's hands, and the monitors, and tried to focus on the blurry ceiling.

“Release the neck brace on my mark,” said Flatline. He sat beside the bed, magnifying mods over both eyes, shoulders hunched as he held the glass face in position. He tilted his head up and down, squinting through the mods' various lenses. He slipped half of the glass face into Mirage's helm. “Nnnnnnnnn _now.”_

Something snapped against the inside of Mirage's neck. Quickmix sprang back, holding the neck brace. Flatline pushed the glass face down. It popped into place. He leaned in close, inspecting the areas where it adjoined Mirage's helm. “All contacts touching. Good fit.”

“Of course,” said Quickmix smugly.

Eagerly, Mirage attempted to smile. Nothing happened. He tried again, imagining the widest grin he could.

He couldn't feel the new face at all. It didn't even feel numb. It felt like _nothing_.

.:I can't move it!:.

_“Obviously,”_ said Quickmix. He grabbed a few wires strung up around the med bed. “It's not hooked up to anything yet.”

“Yeah.” Flatline took the wires and slipped them between the glass and Mirage's helm. “It's about to be.” He opened his fingertips, slid thin tools in, and closed the plating around them. He bent his fingers, testing the grip.

Mirage eyed them warily. .:Those look _even more_ like mnemosurgeon's needles than the previous tools:.

“Well... they are.” Flatline inserted them between the new face and Mirage's helm, squinting through the magnifiers. “Modified, of course. I use them because they are thin enough to fit in tight spaces, yet strong enough to manipulate individual nerves.”

.:Needlessly sinister:.

“If you can find a good substitute, sweetie, let us know,” said Quickmix. He placed sensors on Mirage's helm. “Feedback rate?”

“Feels good,” said Flatline. He hunched over until Mirage could see the fine seams in the red latches on his mask. “99.5%”

“Same reading here.” Quickmix pulled a few monitors close and tapped at them. “Initial biofeedback lines at the ready.”

“Try not to move,” said Flatline. His black fingers twitched like spiders at the edges of Mirage's vision. “You're lucky. Or rather, _I'm_ lucky. Quickmix was able to mold the sensor nets and energon tubes into the glass itself. Otherwise we'd be here another week while I did it by hand.”

.:Hrmm. Thank you:. sent Mirage reluctantly.

_“Welcome,”_ said Quickmix. “It'll work. If it doesn't, no big deal. I'll get to see you on your back for another week.” He leaned over and waggled his ocular arches. _“Nice.”_

.:Ugh. _Why_ are you so _disagreeable?:._

“Quickmix! We discussed this! No antagonizing the patient on the operating table!”

Quickmix's eyes flashed. “I'm _tired_. It's not _my_ fault his big stupid boyfriend kept me up all night.”

_.:What?:._

“Activate the sensor net!” Flatline tilted Mirage's helm and slid the needles around its edges. Mirage shuddered. The feeling _crawled_ under his plating. 

“Yeah, yeah...” Quickmix tapped monitors and a flash of light came from the wires on Mirage's helm.

Flatline leaned even closer, eyes flicking back and forth as he made minute adjustments to things Mirage could neither see nor feel. “Resistance looks normal. Quickmix?”

“Confirmative.” Quickmix tapped through several menus. “Yup. All normal.”

“Okay... all the tubules are aligned.” Flatline gently tilted Mirage's helm up. “Here goes.” He sat back. With his non-needle hand, he tapped at the monitors. Quickmix stepped closer. “Biofeedback initiated.”

.:When will the- _ooh!_ Ouch, that hurts a bi- oh, it's better now. Ow! Alright. _Ow!:._

“The med bed is jump-starting your new sensor net. It'll take a minute to equilibrate,” said Flatline. “As soon as you can, open your mouth.”

Waves of stinging pain and shivering cold washed over Mirage's face. His cheeks and lips twitched. He grimaced, the motion too slow on one side and too fast on the other. Pink light flashed through his face, fizzing at the protective sealant around his eyes. 

“Did you see that?” asked Flatline.

“Yeah. Wow.” Quickmix's field flared unexpectedly with awe.

.:What?!:.

“We just saw the _moment_ your face flooded with energon,” said Flatline, finials dancing.

“That was pretty fuckin' cool,” said Quickmix.

The waves of jerky movement stopped. Mirage pursed his lips. 

.:Oh! I can feel that!:. He shut his eyelids. Flatline and Quickmix remained visible. .:I can blink!:.

“Your mouth,” said Flatline.

.:Oh, yes:. Mirage parted his lips and then sent out a garbled barrage of data as Flatline shoved his hand in his mouth. **.:?!?!?!:.**

There were a few dull _thuds_ as Flatline snapped Mirage's teeth and tongue into place. 

“Oh yeah, they fit in perfectly,” said Quickmix. He winked at Mirage. “What does Flatline taste like? I've always wanted to know.”

“Shut _up,”_ said Flatline. “Ancillary mods have joined the sensor net. Mirage, can you feel your tongue?”

One second, there was nothing, and the next, his tongue was there. .:Yes!:. Mirage sent. Flatline was running his fingers along the length of it. .:That feels very strange!:.

“I know, I'm just checking that it's installed correctly.” He gave Quickmix a finial glare. “Don't say _anything._ Mirage, remember those exercises? Run through them quickly for me, please.”

Quickmix could barely contain his snickering as Mirage did so, curling and moving his tongue around Flatline's fingers. “Oh my _god._ Please tell me the med bed is recording this.” 

One of the monitors tilted towards him.

“Hey! How's it going in there!” Skywarp yelled from beyond the mesh curtain. “Is it working?”

“Yeah,” Quickmix yelled back. “It's getting _kinky.”_

“What?” The curtain pulled back.

“Dammit, Quickmix!” said Flatline. “Skywarp, I told you to stay out there! Your field will blitz the monitors! It won't be much longer.” He gently pulled Mirage's jaw down. “Keep your mouth open. I'm going to disengage the sealants around your eyes and vocalizer. It'll probably feel _really_ weird. Try not to panic. Also, the tool I'm gonna use looks like a gun but it's not.”

.:Alright:. Mirage's gripped the med bed harder as Flatline stuck a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. For a split second, Mirage marveled at the idea that he was letting an (ex) Decepticon do such a thing and trusting there would be a positive outcome. A vibrational pulse shot through his eyes and his field flared out with shock. A second pulse in his throat had him blinking back tears.

“You're doing great,” said Flatline. He pulled strips of sealant out of Mirage's mouth. “Just a few more things to tidy up...”

Mirage winced as the caps in his throat were removed. His bare vocalizer stung at the sudden contact with air. Quickmix rubbed a frigid gel over it and inserted a wire. Mirage's new face twisted as his vocalizer warmed. .:That feels incredibly strange!:

“Yeah,” said Quickmix. “I'm glad I'm not you right now.”

The warmth became an uncomfortable, surging heat. .:Ow! Are you almost done!:.

“Yeah.” Quickmix peered down Mirage's throat, pulled the wire out, and stepped back.

With a sudden _snap!_ , everything sprang into motion. Mirage took a deep breath, unhindered by the caps. It felt _so_ freeing. He ran his tongue over his teeth, blinked and smiled. .:It's working!:.

Flatline sat back, a little wave of relief peeping through his field. His finials swung around in a slow smile. He deactivated the magnifying mods. “Excellent! Let's get you up.” He opened his fingertips and let the needle tools fall out onto a tray. Flatline removed the wires from Mirage's face and helm, gripped his hand, and pulled him up.

.:Thank you! My goodness, this feels amazing!:. He stared around the blurry room in wonder, his spark turning with elation. .:I feel whole again! I can smile!:. Mirage did so, with glee.

Flatline gave him a finial-grin. “All your movements look natural! We'll do a few initial tests and then you can walk around for a bit and relax before the in-depth scans.”

.:How long do you think it will be before-:. Mirage's hand went slack. It slipped out of Flatline's grip. 

“Huh? You forgot to use your vocalizer. You don't have to comm anymore! I just reconnected your vocalizer and Quickmix had the med bed refresh your protocols.” 

Mirage didn't respond.

He was staring at the curtain.

Skywarp was peeking around it, his expression a blend of shock and happiness. He made a noise deep in his chest that warmed Mirage's lines.

Their eyes met.

Skywarp yanked the curtain aside and ran to the med bed. His powerful field fluttered in and out, brushing against everyone in the room. He knelt so they were face to face, the monitors glitching and scattering away from his wings. He took Mirage's hands in his own and _stared_ into Mirage's face. 

Skywarp opened his mouth but no sound came out.

“Oh, darling,” said Mirage. His vocalizer was staticky. He reset it. He smiled and stroked Skywarp's cheek. “Has Flatline's work rendered you speechless?”

“Excuse me! I helped!” Quickmix protested.

Skywarp's field pulsed with adoration and pain and _joy_. Gently, so gently, he touched Mirage's lips with his fingertips. Mirage shivered. The _sensation!_

Without taking his eyes off Skywarp, Mirage asked, “Flatline, do you have a mirror?” 

Flatline handed him one.

“Thank you.”

Mirage leaned close to Skywarp. Skywarp pursed his lips. Just before Mirage got close enough to kiss, he spun around and leaned back. Mirage held the mirror up before them. He grinned at Skywarp's confused reflection.

Mirage studied Skywarp in the mirror. He concentrated. The clear glass of his face shifted through a black and white rainbow until it settled on a silvery-gray. Their reflections snapped into focus.

Skywarp's jaw dropped. “What!”

“I match you again,” said Mirage. “Just like before.” He kissed Skywarp's cheek. The metal of Skywarp's face warmed his lips. He felt the subtle point of the seam running from Skywarp's eye down to his chin. Mirage shook his head minutely, rubbing his lips back and forth against the seam.

Skywarp's field brightened the room. He took Mirage's helm in his hands and kissed him deeply. Mirage, caught off guard and still new to having a face, and a face that could change opacity at that, flashed through grays and clears and blacks. Before he could even process this new barrage of tingling data, his lines heated and he pressed into Skywarp.

VOP!!

The mirror fell to the floor. The various lines from the med bed that had been connected to Mirage's body swung back and forth. The monitors flashed red.

“ _Dammit!_ ” Flatline squinted as the warp light receded from his eyes. “We have to test so many _things!”_ He touched his wrist, activating his comm. “ _Skywarp!_ Get back here!”

“Oh my _god_ ,” said Quickmix, mixer spinning. “I would give _anything_ to be in the room with them right now. Can you imagine it? With _that_ field?” He shivered. “You could see Skywarp's tongue in his mou-”

_“Shut up, Quickmix!”_

~~

“You called me 'darling!'”

“Oh! I did it without even thinking!”

Skywarp had brought them back to the hotel room. They kneeled on the bed, arms loosely around each other. With the light of his eyes no longer being reflected back into them, Mirage could see Skywarp clearly. His glossy coating was scuffed, his paint scratched and peeling at the edges. His eyes were the same- they were what Mirage remembered, at least- beautiful reddish-purple, flashing as he trembled. This close he could see their facets and inner workings. There were old, old scars in his face that had been inexpertly patched. 

Mirage sniffed. “I can smell the teleportation!” A collage of teleports flashed through his mind. That forgotten scent of air molecules being ripped apart and put back together again nestled into the back of his processor.

Skywarp's field was scrambled with excitement, his wings shaking. “I wanted to tell you, when you- when you were- right before you got the mirror-”

“Yes, slow down. It's okay, I'm listening!” Mirage smiled. He touched his cheeks. “I have a face again! It feels so _real!_ So real and good to smile!”

Skywarp pulled him close. _“You're the most goddamn beautiful mech I've ever seen!”_

“Thank y-mmpph!” Skywarp kissed his new mouth, his cheeks, his neck. The sensations shuddered through Mirage: brand new sensors that had never been used before, exposed to Skywarp's field and affections. _“Ohh...!”_ He closed his eyes as the feeling of Skywarp's lips on his face spiraled through him, lighting his lines. Skywarp's field pulsed and he went dizzy with its magnitude. His processor fuzzed over in the wake of the sensory input. If they didn't stop touching now, Mirage wasn't sure they ever could-

“Wait,” said Mirage, pushing him away gently. Skywarp made a pained noise. Mirage freed himself from Skywarp's embrace easily, the old, escapist war instincts erupting through the fuzziness of his mind. Mirage steadied himself. He took something from subspace and held it out to Skywarp. It glinted in the light. “This is for you. A memento. To honor our past.”

“What?” Skywarp squinted at the broken piece of glass. “Is this from your...”

“Yes,” said Mirage. He pressed his palm against Skywarp's chest. “To put in there. I have my own piece. We shall both have a bit. An acknowledgement of all we went through together while I had that face.” He took a deep breath, marveling at being able to do so without the restriction of the caps. “An awful lot of pain happened while I had that face. But also a lot of good! We shall not let those memories chain us down. But we shall not let them go unforgotten, either.” He glanced away. “Er, when I remember it all, I will endeavor not to forget again, I mean.”

Skywarp smiled. “Got it.” He kissed the piece and tucked it very carefully into subspace. “I-”

_.:Skywarp! Get back here!:._ The furious, tinny comm blared from Skywarp's audials.

Skywarp's eyes widened. “Oh my _god,”_ he said. “For a second I thought that was Megatron.”

“We should go back,” said Mirage with a laugh. “The tests-”

“Nooo,” said Skywarp. He tightened his arms around Mirage. “No, I can't stand it.” He kissed Mirage's jaw, little tingling, lingering touches of lips on glass. Heat flared through Mirage's lines in waves and he gasped. “Flatline can wait. I _need_ you.”

“We need to... go back...” Mirage pushed his field out, trying desperately to establish a little space for himself. “Please, it's _so_ hard to resist you right now.” 

“Fuckin' likewise!” Skywarp groaned and released him. His field pulsed around Mirage, so thick with frazzled yearning that Mirage could almost feel it with his _plating_ and not his EMF sensors.

“It will be just another few hours, I'm sure! Then I shall be with you again.”

“You promise?!” 

Mirage gave him a flirty smile and drew another item from subspace. “I _promise.”_

Skywarp's jaw dropped for a second time. “The eternal light!” He took the little pyramid and spun it. It had been polished and cleaned, though not ground free of its small nicks and dings. The word _Beloved_ glowed with a steady light from within. 

“To celebrate our agreement. Our... our future. To help us start again where we left off.”

“But. But you threw it off the cliff. I _saw_ you!”

“That was hard light holo,” said Mirage with a grin. “I thought it too important to cast away, but you refused to keep it. You never heard it hit the ground, did you?”

“Hah! You fucking _trickster!”_ Skywarp kissed Mirage again, pride swelling out of his field. “Damn, you've got an ability over me, now. I'm gonna have to watch out for you. What'd you fill it with?”

“My innermost energon.” Mirage brushed his chest. “Not everything is clear, but I feel it will be soon. I know how I felt in the past.” He paused a moment, then looked Skywarp in the eyes. He inched closer and said softly, “I look forward to a future with you.”

At that, static crept into the corners of Skywarp's eyes. He opened his chest and clicked the eternal light into place. Its light reflected off the objects and paint splotches inside him, like a miniature planetarium full of stars. He reset his vocalizer. “You filled it with your innermost energon the first time...”

“I am delighted to hear that,” said Mirage. He touched the inside of Skywarp's chest. Little spots of light danced over his fingertips. Mirage's processor hummed. Time seemed to slow. The room felt warm. “How _beautiful_ you are.”

Skywarp shivered. “It always- it always felt funny when _you_ said that to _me._ ” He dug into a subspace compartment and pulled out a small object. “I have- I have- I was gonna wait til you remembered everything but right now feels right-” He shoved the thing into Mirage's hands.

“Oh...” It was a polished crystal orb, reddish-purple, flattened on one side. Light flashed and sparkled in its many internal facets. “Ohh _Skywarp,_ it's _gorgeous.”_ Mirage held it up next to Skywarp's eyes. “It matches perfectly! Where did you _get_ this??”

“Quickmix made it.” Skywarp shut his chest and partially transformed his arm open. One of his biolights had been pierced and patched again. “I had something rare to trade for it.”

“A blood drop.” Mirage clasped it to his chest. Something moved in his spark. Not Primus, nudging him, as he had sometimes interpreted in the past. But something new that was, at the same time, very old. Mirage tucked the blood drop away carefully and took Skywarp's face in his hands. “Thank you,” he said softly. “You've labored hard and paid for my new face twice over. Now I am whole again! You've waited for me for millions of years. You've given me so many beautiful gifts. And I have not yet thanked you. _Thank you.”_

“A- always.” The static in Skywarp's eyes crackled. Mirage brushed it with his thumbs. It wound around them and dissipated. Skywarp shifted, black and silver body flashing. His field thrummed with adoration. 

A wave of warmth washed through Mirage. All thoughts of returning to the shop disappeared. Mirage let his face go clear. Skywarp's breath hitched. Lust infiltrated the adoration. It brushed Mirage's plating. “Though you are caught between stranger and lover in my mind, I know which will win out in the end. I have seen how we move in a thousand dreams. It has been so _very_ long... let us rediscover our pleasures.” Mirage kissed him, letting his field flow out with desire. Skywarp's eyes flashed. His wings curled and his biolights slowed. Mirage pushed him down and nudged his legs apart. “I quite like the thighs of this frame,” he said, slowly tracing their seams. _“Lovely.”_

“Hnn...”

Mirage lost himself in Skywarp's field, the lust and adoration permeating his own and setting his lines alight. He pressed his face into Skywarp's chest and kissed its seams. The plating relaxed and separated as he worked his way down. _“Fuck,”_ Skywarp whispered. His field intensified, filling the room so thickly Mirage thought his processor would burst. Mirage kissed the biolights running down his torso. They brightened and pulsed against his lips. He licked one. Its energy was slow and hot, moving across the glass-on-glass contact point with sensuous waves. Skywarp moaned. He stroked his cockpit, then wrapped his arms around his lover. One hand went up to tease Mirage's axels, the other down to squeeze his aft. 

“Oh!” Mirage dipped his fingertips beneath Skywarp's pelvic plating. Skywarp's hips jerked. The hand on his aft gripped him harder. Mirage smirked and slid his tongue along the seams of Skywarp's interface panels- 

_.:Skywarp! If you don't get back here **right now** I'm gonna find you, eviscerate you, and let Quickmix use your deactivated body as a jacuzzi at his private parties!!:._

A startling, off-putting shock ran through the room. Skywarp's hands froze.

_“Wow,”_ said Mirage, pushing himself from Skywarp's hot frame. With the mesmerizing field kept momentarily at bay, he shook his head clear. He looked away from Skywarp's interface panels, embarrassed. Just yesterday they had fought, and now Mirage was throwing himself at the mech's panels with more than a hint of desperation. Mirage's field retreated. “Do you think he would really do that?”

“No,” Skywarp said, reluctantly sitting up. “He'd do something worse.” Skywarp's biolights blinked with distress. He let out a long, pained moan and rested his chin on Mirage's shoulder. “Don't be embarrassed,” he said, his voice low, shivering through Mirage's audials. 

“Oh, I- uh-”

“It's okay,” said Skywarp. He gave Mirage's crest a quick kiss. “I know things are confusing. But please don't be embarrassed. Everything we do is great.”

“I think- I don't know what happened. I got caught up in the gift exchange. Everything went a little fast-”

“It's okay,” repeated Skywarp. “That's how we are together! You reveled openly in our fields before the war. Do you remember? You were always comfortable in wild fields. We were always touching. But when we met up again halfway through the war in the cave you were embarrassed.” Skywarp's eyes flashed with pain. “I felt like _shit_ when it came through your field. It took a day for you to relax fully with me again.”

Mirage thought of all the memories where they sat together, touching each other and speaking softly. Even recently they had done so at the cliff outside Iacon. “I believe you.”

Skywarp smiled. “Maybe it'll take two days this time. It's okay to let go.” He kissed Mirage's cheek and his lips lingered there. “It's always better when you do.”

Heat rose to Mirage's new face. He tried to push it away, but he could not deny the allure of their interaction. He hesitated, feeling that he teetered on an edge: what he perceived to be socially appropriate versus the seductive depths of Skywarp's field. 

His spark turned in his chest as he threw himself fully into the idea of a lusty union. 

Mirage kissed him. “Take me back before Flatline hires a bounty hunter. We'll get this sorted out. There's something I had asked him regarding our interactions, anyway.” He leaned and whispered into Skywarp's audial. _“After, we shall delight in each other. I promise I will not hold back.”_

Skywarp grinned. His eyes flashed with hunger as energy gathered around them. He held Mirage close, kissed him at the exact moment of the warp. Just before they disappeared, Mirage caught a glimpse of the entire breadth of Skywarp's field, its layers and layers of shapes and emotion. The lustful excitement he'd just felt was a membrane stretched thin over a roiling storm of pain.

~~

Flatline eyed Skywarp with annoyance. He and Mirage were holding hands.

Skywarp was smiling. _Smiling_. 

Or was it a grin? Flatline wasn't intimately familiar with the specificities of facial expressions. He much preferred to let his finials do the talking. He checked the definitions.

Skywarp was grinning. _Grinning_.

Flatline didn't know what to make of it. Well, of course he knew. He understood _why_ Skywarp was happy. But it was still a strange thing to see. So many years of Decepticon scowls and frowns and anger. And all it took to make _this_ one happy was a strange little blue and white Autobot.

A strange little blue and white Autobot who was supposed to be _concentrating_ on running his new face through its opacities but was, instead, distracted. Laughing and talking and _not_ paying attention.

Not to mention Skywarp's field was pulsing out and causing data errors in the light monitors.

“Skywarp!” Flatline pointed to the monitors. “I can't get anything done with you in here. Go _away.”_

“No!”

“It won't take long, I'm sure.” Mirage patted Skywarp's hand. Then he tilted his head. “I haven't eaten properly in _months_. I shall transfer some money to you. Will you get us something to celebrate with, after the scans?”

Skywarp looked from Flatline to Mirage. He seemed uncertain.

“And check next door, too. See if Spreem has any treats?” Mirage tilted his head and smiled at Skywarp.

After the past few weeks of Mirage either projecting a blank face, or walking around with no face at all, his expressions seemed weirdly exaggerated to Flatline now. But the mech wanted to eat- this was the first time Flatline could recall him initiating a meal. He was slowly remembering his past. He was expressing genuine, positive emotions. Flatline concluded his own feelings on the smile were irrelevant.

“Okay.” 

“Thank you.”

They kissed. Flatline rolled his eyes. Skywarp vanished. Both Flatline and Mirage blinked.

“Ugh. Finally,” said Flatline. He gathered the monitors and typed frantically. Who knew when that maniac would be back?

“What kind of assessments need to be done?” Mirage reclined gracefully on the med bed. 

“Gotta make sure everything's working properly.” Flatline positioned a monitor over Mirage's head. “Just keep talking, keep moving your face. Did you remember anything new or important today?”

“Not really. Though I cannot stop thinking about Skywarp.”

“Yeah,” said Flatline, half distracted. “That sucks. Did he mention anything about being in pain?”

“Yes,” said Mirage. “How did you know?”

Flatline pointed to another monitor. “His vitals are crazy. Did he say what caused the pain?”

“No. Nothing definitive. Just that he feels better when he's with me.”

“Hrmm...”

“What?” Mirage looked up from the bed. “Do you know what's causing it?”

“No. And he's not a patient of mine. However.” Flatline gave Mirage a knowing look. “I would like to answer that question of yours from the other day.”

“What questi- oh.” The question Mirage had asked in private, his field thin with embarrassment, his eyes glued to the floor.

“And in the course of doing so, we can delve into Skywarp a bit. Up to the point non-invasive scans will allow, of course. Did you read the data packet I gave you?”

“Yes,” said Mirage. “And I do hope you can help him. It's meant a lot, all you've done for me. Even though he and I aren't... well, we're still strangers in a way. But he already feels special to me. I know he'll mean a lot _more_ to me soon. I don't want him to be in pain.”

Flatline nodded. “I think the whole world is probably better off with a not-pissed-off Skywarp in it.”

The monitors ran through their scans. Mirage practiced changing the opacity of his face against different splotches of gray paint. He copied expressions from photographs, stuck out his tongue, squinched up his face, batted his eyelids.

“I'm extremely satisfied with these results,” said Flatline. He pointed to one of the monitors. “Remember those questions I asked when you first got here? Your holo reactions are on the left. Current reactions on the right.” 

Mirage looked at rows of nearly identical pairs of his own face. “They're quite similar!”

“Yes! I think your glass face looks more alive. Which is good, obviously.” Flatline pointed to various colorful lines on the monitors. “And all of your sensors are working properly. You exhibit natural flexibility. And everything is comfortable? You haven't complained of any pain.”

“Everything feels _perfect,”_ said Mirage happily. 

Flatline gave him a finial grin. “And _that_ is why I keep Quickmix around. Damn bot's annoying, but he does excellent work.”

By the time Skywarp returned, Flatline and Mirage had retired to the main room of the body shop. Skywarp grinned and set down a mountain of bags, their branding indicating they were from restaurants and shops located all over Iacon.

“That smells wonderful!” Mirage grabbed one of the nearby bags and stuck his face in it. “Oh!”

The scent made Flatline's tanks ping with hunger. He assumed Skywarp had bought a feast for the two of them alone. “I'll... go next door and eat.” Flatline tried not to think about what Spreem might have cooked for the evening meal. “Mirage, comm me when you're done.” 

“No, uh... this one's for you,” said Skywarp. He threw Flatline a bag.

“Me?” Flatline's finials went up as he recognized the brand. “This is from the place down the street!”

“Yeah. I told them it was for you. They knew what you wanted. They filled it up.”

Flatline pulled out little packets of food, his favorite Camien meal. Surprise ran through him. He absolutely had _not_ thought Skywarp would get him anything. He patted his sides, knowing he didn't have any change in his subspace compartments. “Damn. Er. Hang on, I've got some shanix in my med bag-”

“Please, don't worry about it,” said Mirage. 

“Yeah,” said Skywarp. “Just shut up and eat it.”

“Oh.” This was probably the closest he'd ever get to a token of appreciation from Skywarp. Flatline removed his mask and grinned. “Thanks.” 

They pushed all the stools and chairs together and set out a big feast. Skywarp had bought a strange assortment. It was odd to have Vosnian crystal curls on the same plate as Polyhexian cubefruit, thought Flatline, but hey, they were a strange mix of mechs anyway. There were specialty drinks in containers that changed colors as you drank and an assortment of small treats Spreem had made. Mirage laughed and smiled, cutting everything into pieces and chewing it slowly and declaring each bite more delicious than the last. Skywarp watched him, field flowing in and out with happiness. Flatline watched the monitors.

“-line!”

“Huh?” Flatline looked up. Mirage was holding his drink in the air.

“I said, thank you, Flatline! To your fine work. I feel whole again.” Mirage smiled.

Skywarp slowly raised his drink. “Fine work.”

“Oh.” Flatline joined the toast. “You're welcome!” They clinked their drinks together. The cups flashed blue and yellow as they emptied. 

As the meal wound down, Flatline passed Skywarp a tablet. Skywarp's eyes widened as he read the procedure. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” said Mirage softly, looking away as he pushed the stools back to their usual places.

“Holy shit, Flatline,” said Skywarp. “You gonna _pay_ us to do this?”

“ _I_ asked him about it,” said Mirage. “I wanted to know... in a safe place... in case something went wrong.”

“Oh.” Skywarp raised his ocular ridges. “Okay, then. Heh. Good timing with those comms earlier, then.” He handed the tablet back. “Whatever! I'm game.”

“Good. I understand this has the potential to be an awkward interaction,” said Flatline. He snapped his mask back on and directed them to a chair in the middle of the monitors. “But I assure you, the energy that will be piped along Mirage's plating will not induce arousal.”

“Don't say anything,” Mirage said to Skywarp. “Not a single joke!”

“I won't!” 

“Please arrange yourselves comfortably,” said Flatline.

Skywarp sat on the chair and Mirage slowly climbed onto his lap.

“This feels a bit... weird to do in the body shop,” said Mirage, settling himself on Skywarp's thighs. “But at least I have a lovely perch.” He winked. Then he laughed nervously. “I know we won't be doing anything but- it feels as though there's a public aspect to it.”

“Heh. When was the last time we did that?”

“Shush!” Mirage lowered his voice to a whisper. “ _Did_ we? I have no memory of that.”

Skywarp snickered. 

Flatline lowered his finials. Unamusing couple's banter. “Sit quietly, please. I want to get some baseline readings. Relax.”

Skywarp nudged Mirage closer and they sat in a loose embrace. They smiled at each other. Flatline turned his attention to the monitors.

Mirage's vitals were more stable than they had been during the majority of his stay at the body shop. They were consistent with those he had displayed during his retellings of being with Skywarp. Flatline had expected that.

Skywarp's baselines were _crazy_ \- he wasn't lying about being in pain. Every stress-related output was high, some of them even at max allowance for his frame type. He was in physical pain _constantly_. This surprised Flatline. Even though the initial readings he had stolen the night Skywarp broke in were elevated, Flatline had figured that was due to the circumstances. But Skywarp's pain remained, never letting up. Even after a relaxing meal with acquaintances, he still showed stress. Flatline _almost_ admired the mech for making it this far without doing something drastic, like injecting scraplets into his lines or warping into a star.

Flatline stuck flexible, round pads to Mirage's chest. “These will administer the energy. Please render your face transparent.” 

Mirage did so. 

On the monitors, Skywarp's sparkbeat quickened.

“Do you have any questions? You've both read the procedure. It's very simple.” Flatline hoped he wouldn't have to explain anything that made them feel uncomfortable. _He_ didn't give a damn what kind of energy they were going to display. He just wanted to know if his suspicions were right.

“No,” said Mirage.

“I, uhh, usually flood my field out,” said Skywarp. “Wild. Should I do that?”

“Go ahead,” said Flatline.

Skywarp's field _saturated_ the room. Flatline stepped back. It was much more powerful than anything he had expressed in the medic's presence before. Even Mirage looked surprised. Skywarp's field was _fascinating_. It overlapped and twined around itself in multiples. Excitement and nervousness and happiness all clashed together over a thick undercurrent of pain. Flatline sensed what Mirage had described Skywarp's field up close as- an amalgam of shapes and feelings. He strengthened his own field, establishing a small dead zone for himself, not wanting to experience Skywarp's emotions. Or have them jeopardize his ability to observe the experiment. He recalibrated the monitors to the increased energy levels in the room.

“I'm going to activate the energy distributors,” said Flatline. The pads on Mirage's chest hummed. Fine bolts of electricity branched out from them across his plating. “It's a low level, as the procedure indicated. Is it uncomfortable?”

“I don't feel anything,” said Mirage. His posture remained casual. His vitals were steady. Good sparkbeat, no erratic readings from his processor. Electricity crackled along his plating. He watched it flow and gather and hold at the base of his collar. “It's very odd to see such a display and not feel anything. Oh, I'm so glad. I was a bit embarrassed at the thought of it. But this is fine. How are you?”

Skywarp's mouth was open, but he didn't speak. He had pulled Mirage close and curled around him, his limbs and wings shaking. He grasped and released Mirage's sides. All the plating on his body contracted and rattled. His breaths were loud, his biolights pulsed with anticipation. His field thickened, drenching the room with desperation and desire. 

Some of it was lustful desperation and desire, as for a loved one.

Some of it was _not_.

As Mirage tilted his helm up, electricity engulfed it, and the clear glass of his face went brilliant white. Skywarp moaned and ran his hands up Mirage's body and grabbed his helm. He pulled their faces together, nose-to-nose. 

Mirage's glass face burst into a display the likes of which Flatline had never seen before. It was like the shimmering rainbows on an oil slick, but _brighter_ , lit from the blinding depths of Mirage's face. The colors flowed and arched into each other, dynamic and vibrant and _alive_. 

Skywarp _stared_ , his eyes glowing their unique reddish-purple. He gripped Mirage like a mech who was starving and had just been handed a cube.

On the monitors, Skywarp's lines exploded with a flash of energy. His elevated stress readings plummeted. One of the mods in his processor was completely overwhelmed and briefly shut off. His vitals stabilized instantly.

As the colorful display faded, Skywarp blinked. He pulled Mirage closer and kissed him deeply, moaning. His shoulders sagged, his wings relaxed. The small plates all along his body fluttered. His field went from a chaotic, desperate frenzy to a unified, humming presence. It was still powerful, but its overall tone had changed to a euphoric relief. 

“Oh...” Mirage pulled away from his lips. _His_ vitals had just started displaying arousal. Mirage clamped down on his field. “Thank you. We do have an audience, though.” He gave a short, embarrassed laugh and his face returned to its usual silvery-white. “I've never been awake right after, before... Did it look right?”

“It was beautiful,” said Skywarp slowly. His field radiated a soft jubilation. “Not exactly like before. That's prolly cuz it's a new face.” Skywarp glanced at Flatline. “We'll have to _gather more data_ on our own time.” He kissed Mirage again. Waves of relief and calm washed through the room. “Holy shit do I feel better. I always feel better when I'm with you.”

Mirage smiled.

Flatline ignored the rest of their quiet talking and soft touches. 

He watched the video recording of Mirage's glass face exhibiting interference. The patterns were indeed aesthetically pleasing and Flatline could see how uneducated (or evil) mechs would attribute it to the work of a god. It was a display more beautiful than one could get by piping overload energy through structured glass. Flatline credited the phenomenon to something besides the glass. It was caused by some kind of energy that Mirage was the conduit for from warpy space. 

But even more fascinating than _that_ was what it had done to Skywarp.

Whether by instinct or by habit, Skywarp had thrust his face into that outburst of colorful energy. It had, as evidenced by the scans and monitors, traveled down his eyes, bypassing the numerous impervious barriers stationed along the way, and into his spark. There it mixed with his own powerful, warpy-space-connected energy and then exploded out into his lines-

-where it had alleviated _every single_ stress output. In a very, very specific pattern and with very specific results that Flatline had seen over and over and over in his patients. Especially during the aftermath of the war, all those metalliopiate addicts crawling to his body shop on treads and knees, begging him for something, _anything_. 

That sudden plummet in pain and stress... Skywarp's words from the other day came to Flatline's mind: 

_“After a few thousand years of living with Mirage- loving him,_ fucking him, being with _him almost daily- they noticed my spark was changing.”_

Flatline reset his vocalizer. Both mechs snapped their heads his way. “Mirage. You have the answer to your question. Your new face does exhibit interference. Skywarp,” he said, holding out a tablet. “This is what your body did during that display.”

Skywarp took the tablet and squinted. “Looks like some high level things got leveled out.”

“Yeah,” said Flatline. “And I bet if we keep you under observation, those levels will slowly go up again over time. You currently feel no pain?”

“No pain!” Skywarp grinned. 

Flatline nodded. “Your reaction response to the display is exactly in line with an energy addict's.”

_“What?”_ Skywarp glanced at Mirage. “I ain't touched _nothing-”_

“I don't mean nuke or shock energon or anything like that,” said Flatline. “I mean, your frame is literally addicted to the energy Mirage emits during his displays.”

Skywarp blinked. “Ha ha,” he said sarcastically. “We used to joke about that all the time. Just cuz we liked to fuck a lot.” He looked at Mirage, but his lover did not return his amusement.

Mirage looked very serious. “Flatline doesn't joke about these kinds of things,” he said softly. 

Flatline pointed at the chart. “See this line? Elevated pain. Due to withdrawal. You've been suffering withdrawal for millions of years. And here's the display we just saw.” The line went straight down. “Your pain is gone. Stress responses are totally unmeasurable.”

“That's... that's crazy,” said Skywarp. “That doesn't make any sense. You can't get _addicted to someone._ ”

“Firstly, there are many drugs that are energy-based, not chemical. So there's precedent for electrical or energy-related addictions. Secondly, it's a special mixture of overload energy and warpy space energy. The medical community has _no idea_ what warpy space energy can do to a mech. Skywarp, how do you feel after looking at Mirage's face?”

“I feel like... I'm normal. That sounds stupid but that's how it feels.” He touched Mirage's cheek. “Nothing hurts. I feel like I'm where I belong.”

“All those times you looked at his face while he overloaded, that energy went through your eyes and into your spark. And your spark changed with the constant exposure,” said Flatline. “All mechs have a series of protective barriers in those eye-spark channels to prevent energy from doing that. Otherwise we would've exploited and weaponized that weakness a million times over. But some characteristic of warpy space energy allows it to get through.”

“The eyes are the windows to the spark,” Mirage murmured. “None of the pilgrims who beheld my face during the Oblectamentum suffered addiction, though.” He made a disgusted face. “I'm sure they would have called for me day and night and poured out their money, if so. The High Priest would have been _much_ happier.”

“That's because this is _warpy space_ energy. You couldn't tap into that until you could use your outlier ability. Which occurred just before you left the temple. Plus, I think Skywarp's own connection factors in somehow. Your regular, Cybertronian peon don't have connections to warpy space.”

“So _that's_ how it happened,” said Skywarp. “I thought it was just cuz I was near him. Like he was radioactive or something.” He kissed Mirage's helm. “I feel so good with you. I just want to be with you all the time...”

“Because you're addicted to that energy,” said Flatline. “You desire the relief from pain that it gives you. Mirage, you never thought it was odd, the way he stared at you like that? How much more relaxed he was after?”

Mirage blinked. “Why would I? Not that I remember all of our time together, but... it doesn't strike me as odd. I'm accustomed to mechs beholding my face in awe. From doing the Oblectamentum.”

“...ah.”

Mirage's field pulsed with alarm. “Should he... be treated for this?” He looked mournfully at Skywarp. “The constant pain, is it dangerous? Oh darling, have I hurt you?”

“No worse than he's hurt you,” said Flatline. He held up a monitor and it flashed the diagram of Mirage's broken processor with all its blackened damage.

Skywarp looked at it in puzzlement. Mirage gasped. “Oh no! That badly?”

“I don't think it's _deadly_ ,” said Flatline. “He's lived this long in pain. I don't think it's _killing_ him. It just hurts a lot and reduces his quality of life. And makes him irrationally angry and dangerous. And extremely unpleasant.” Flatline looked thoughtfully at the monitors. “I _assume_ withdrawl's not killing him. Repeated, prolonged exposure already did _something_ to his insides...”

“What fools we are,” said Mirage sadly. He touched Skywarp's face. “We found each other and hurt each other so badly.”

“Fuck that,” said Skywarp. “We found each other and we made each other _better.”_

“How could that possibly be! I have fiery hallucinations and you're in constant pain!”

“I'm calmer with you,” said Skywarp. “I'm not pissed off right now.”

“He hasn't broken anything in two days,” said Flatline.

“And you're more confident. You said you felt whole now. Look at this beautiful new face.” Skywarp tilted Mirage's head up and kissed him. “I don't fucking care if you mutate my spark. I just wanna be with you.”

“But that's addiction talking!” Mirage's eyes widened and his field burst with distress. “Oh, this is _awful!_ All that time you thought you loved me, but you were just using me to feel better!” He pushed away from Skywarp, hands shaking. _“False adoration!”_

Flatline winced. Mirage's one constant in life had come up once again. Accusing Skywarp of using him – however fair an assessment it appeared to be - and grouping him in with the cult and the Autobots was just the kind of thing that would set Skywarp off... not that Flatline could blame _him,_ either. Flatline watched Skywarp's forearms, preparing himself for some kind of containment. _Worst case scenario, killswitch him and get him on the med bed and then-_

“ _No_ ,” said Skywarp. He held Mirage's chin and looked into his eyes. “No,” he repeated, voice low and calm. “Listen to me. _Fuck that._ Addiction isn't what made me help you in the very beginning. I didn't hurt then. But I loved you. I loved you _so_ much.” Skywarp went to kiss him but Mirage pulled away. Skywarp's face fell. His field swelled out with truth and adoration. “Please, listen. _Feel it in my field._ Everything in me wanted you before it _needed_ you. You know that, right? It was love at first sight. You remember that... right?”

“I don't know!”

“Mirage, remember the garden. What you felt in the garden,” said Skywarp. “You felt my whole field. My pain then was _unrequited love._ If I never _needed_ you again, I would still want you.”

“How do you know for sure!”

“Because I do!”

Mirage pushed himself off Skywarp's lap and stepped back.

“Goddammit.” Skywarp stood and pointed at Flatline. “Tell him love and addiction are different things!”

Flatline glanced at the monitor. A cascade of thoughts went through his mind, many of them centered around complex measurements that were, at best, hypothetical.

“Tell him!”

For a brief moment, Flatline considered telling the lie. But he couldn't do it.

Instead, he'd tell the truth. It was always much better anyway. “Mirage,” he said. “There isn't a way to scientifically detect a mech's emotion. Not _precisely_ and certainly not in isolation. Not without the context of body language, field output, vocal intonation. There is no wavelength for _love_ that I can measure and show you and say with 100% certainty that that is what Skywarp feels.”

Skywarp's wings drooped. “But-”

“Instead, I propose you look to his actions. The meaningful things he does for you.” Flatline waved a hand dismissively. “That's what I've always heard is important in this kind of scenario.”

“Yeah,” said Skywarp with a hopeful little smile. “Nothing says love like a pile of dismembered feet. Right?” He pointed to it shedding blood in the corner of the shop. 

Mirage glared at him. “Of course you would work off my labor loan! How else would you be able to look into my face!”

The hopeful little smile vanished. The room flashed with a different pain- much different from what Skywarp had displayed before. It was choking and frantic and scared. Flatline glanced at the monitors. It wasn't registering in his lines. It was purely emotional. “Please,” said Skywarp. “Please, _please_ believe me. I don't know how else to prove it to you. I've given you everything. I've waited and waited. What else can I _do?_ I _love_ you-”

“Everything you've ever done was to ensure you'd get to stare into my next overload!”

Skywarp clutched his chest. “That's not true!”

“Why else would he have painted your face?” interrupted Flatline. “Paint covers your display. If he was just chasin' your energy, he wouldn't've done that.”

Mirage's mouth opened. Then it shut. Then it opened again and he said, “he can still see the display through the paint! It was a ploy to get me to remain unveiled!”

“But he didn't _know_ that. And he didn't know about the display, either, at the time that he did it.” Flatline spread his arms wide. “Mirage, why the _hell_ else would some poor, obnoxious, misguided, irrational loser like Skywarp take you in? Why else would he have _put up with you?_ He had _nothing._ He could've turned you in for that reward. He could've dumped you off on someone else. He could've put you in a cage and charged people admission to see you disappear. He could've let the Academy experiment on you. But he didn't. He _helped_ you. He _never_ tried to capitalize on any of your abilities.” Flatline's finials rotated with disgust. “Dear _god,_ mech. You're making me fucking defend _Skywarp.”_

“Thanks...?” Skywarp squinted at him.

Flatline jabbed his finger in Mirage's direction. “I have half a mind to charge you an extra fee for making me think that line of thought!”

Mirage looked at the mountain of feet. Then at Skywarp. Skywarp was struggling not to smile. 

“Mental! Anguish!” yelled Flatline. He shook his fist at the ceiling. _“Defending Skywarp's actions! **Me!**_ The _absurdity!”_

Mirage burst out laughing. Skywarp joined him. The tenseness in the room evaporated.

“Thanks, Flatline,” said Skywarp.

Flatline's mask clacked against his face in irritation. “I wasn't joking!”

“I know.” Skywarp grinned. He held his arms out to Mirage. “C'mon. Now we know what Flatline really thinks of us. Soon he'll charge us extra just for existing. Do you feel _anything_ inside you telling you what's what?”

Mirage smiled, despite himself. He walked to Skywarp and embraced him. “I remember the feeling in the garden, now. That was before your physical pain started. I'm sorry to accuse you. I'm trying.” He squeezed the sides of his helm. “I'm trying so hard! Still trying to figure everything out.”

“It's okay,” said Skywarp. He kissed Mirage's crest and held him close. “I know. It hurts when you don't remember but I know that's not your fault.”

“You know- you know what the others did.”

“Yeah,” said Skywarp. “ _Fuck_ all those guys.” 

Flatline turned away from them, internally scanning the wordage of his agreement with Mirage to see if he could enact a penalty for mental anguish. It was mostly an exercise in angry frivolity. He resolved to add a clause to future agreements, should a similar issue come up again-

“Flatline?”

He turned back. 

They were sitting on the chair together. Mirage was tracing the lines on the tablet charting Skywarp's reaction. “Flatline, is this warpy-overload energy a necessity for Skywarp, now?”

“I'd say so, unless he wants to live the rest of his life in agony.”

“Nope,” said Skywarp. “He does not want that.”

“So, it's less a withdrawal than a starvation,” said Mirage. He touched Skywarp's face. “I'm so sorry for all the pain you've been in.”

Flatline squinted. “The symptoms are absolutely 100% in line with withdrawal and not with starvation, but I can see what you mean by the parallel. There's certainly a bigger stigma surrounding addiction.” He shrugged. “If that's what you wanna tell yourselves to make you feel better about it, I won't correct you. More than twice.”

“Why did this happen?” asked Mirage. 

Flatline shrugged. “You're linked. In a really complex, weird, probably-unreproducible way.” 

“Is there anything that can be done to alleviate his pain? What if something happens to me again? I can't be the only means for his relief!” Mirage put his hands on both their chests. “That's not fair to either of us.”

Flatline stroked his chin. The question begged a solution, and solutions were puzzles, and puzzles were interesting. His irritation faded as he considered the factors. “There's probably some way to alleviate it. First, we have to learn more about its nature. Skywarp, this pain started after you two met?”

“Yeah. Not immediately. A while after.” 

Mirage's shoulders slumped. 

“But I'd rather have it than never have met him,” said Skywarp quickly. He lifted Mirage's chin.

“Thank you,” said Mirage softly.

“Hmm,” said Flatline. “Definitely a byproduct of your first warp, then.”

They nodded.

“Or the spark baring that followed the spark extraction. I don't know _anything_ about energy bonding. Or spark baring. Or outlier energy interaction. Or whatever the hell you two did to each other. I don't know if that bond can be safely broken.” Flatline's finials pushed together. “Hmm! _Breaking_ the bond...”

The two mechs looked at him, their fields horrified.

“Ooookay, that solution is out. Even though it would be so _interesting_ to try-”

“Flatline!”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

“In general,” said Mirage. “We'd prefer not to _break_ anything.”

“We're broken enough,” said Skywarp.

“Fine, fine. Lemme think about this.” Flatline reviewed Skywarp's pattern of pain and relief. “The peaks of your pain are, regardless of any other factor, very expensive for your frame, from an energy standpoint.”

“Yeah. They get pissed when I eat half the rations. But they don't know how much I need it!”

“What you _need_ is some kind of stabilizing force. Something to help even you out.” Flatline flicked through a catalogue of engines, power cells, and batteries on one of the monitors. “What could we use... maybe a modified battery. You could charge it up and then it would parcel the energy out slowly. Like time-release medication.” 

“All our 'talking to Primus' jokes will become 'charging the battery' jokes.” Skywarp waggled his optical arches.

Mirage groaned and hid his face in his hands.

“Heh.” Skywarp's mouth twisted. “Wait. You wouldn't put that in my spark, would you?”

“That would be an amazing and dangerous place to put a battery,” said Flatline. “As tempting as it is, _no._ Not _in_ your spark. Though I think it should reside in your chest cavity and would, by necessity, be connected to your spark via a thin line. I have an acquaintance I've worked with in the past on medical devices. I will reach out to him.” Flatline paused. “That is, if you _want_ to pursue treatment. Everything we've done up to this point was ostensibly about Mirage. But I require your consent to continue down this avenue.”

Skywarp hesitated. 

Mirage touched his chest. “Skywarp?”

“I don't want to be in pain anymore,” said Skywarp slowly. “But I really really really really really really-”

“I get it,” said Flatline.

“-really really _really_ don't want you touching my spark chamber.” Skywarp winced, as if even the thought of it pained him. 

“You wouldn't be _baring_ your spark,” said Flatline. “As I imagine it, only a thin wire would be necessary.”

“The thought of you being in pain is troubling to me. And deeply unfair to you.” Mirage kissed his cheek. “You deserve better.”

“I wouldn't even have to drill a hole,” said Flatline. “We could use your Decepticon badge cut outs.”

“I don't- I don't have cut outs. There aren't _any_ holes in my spark chamber.” Skywarp touched his Decepticon badge. “This was made from something else.”

“Oh.” Flatline's finials swung out diagonally. A bitter little flame of jealousy erupted in his chest. He pulled his field in. “How did you get away with that?”

“Pretended to rip out a chunk but it was really just part of an old frame.”

“Smart.” The word hung in the air, crisp and reluctantly spoken.

“ _Thank_ you,” said Skywarp. 

Flatline shook himself. The thought that the Seeker had so neatly sidestepped the _one_ thing that he had spent his entire post-war life trying to fix would _eat him alive_ if he allowed it. Flatline forced himself to put the thought aside. “The point is moot unless you want treatment. Until then, it is not worth discussing.” He tapped at the monitors. “Mirage, I'm very pleased with your recuperation so far. You've got your face, a path towards recovery from the mnemosurgery, and the answer to your question. I only want one more night of observation and then our agreement is fulfilled. If you remain stable, you will be officially released tomorrow. I'll contact First Aid and let him know. Additionally, if you would like, I will reach out through my network to find a mnemospecialist/therapist who works discreetly.”

“I- thank you,” said Mirage. “Alright. Reach out.”

Flatline nodded. “You're free to do as you like until tonight. Then one more night on the med bed. And, barring any kind of unforeseen circumstance, you'll be all set.” Flatline gathered a few monitors and sat down forcefully. “Skywarp, rethink the battery offer. You've more than paid for the procedure. I think it would _much_ improve your quality of life and remove the burden from Mirage to be your pain relief. I'm going to do some research on the subject. Return with Mirage tonight to tell me your decision. See you later.” He turned away from them.

“I think we just got dismissed,” said Skywarp. Their footsteps faded as they exited the body shop, Skywarp asking, “what the hell was that about?” A monitor chimed as the door slid shut.

In the silence that followed, Flatline squeezed his eyes closed. He brushed his chest. Jealousy still stewed- a rare and unwanted emotion for him to experience.

Recent events had brought change- important change. Things were better now than they had ever been. Better, but not perfect.

And how Flatline had _longed_ for perfect. For _years._ He'd built this whole shop around his ideas, his procedures, his _ideals._ He had the most sophisticated composition-defining equipment on Cybertron. He had the most sophisticated med bed in the universe. And how dearly some had paid for him to have it.

Flatline thought about what Skywarp had said of Mirage and perfection: _“Deep down Mirage still wants to be perfect. He was..._ made to be _perfect. There are things he won't let go of cuz he thinks, maybe,_ just maybe _, something miraculous will happen and he'll suddenly attain Perfection- whatever the fuck that is. But no mech can achieve perfection according to their own standards!”_

His spark pulsed. 

_There are things he won't let go of..._

His spark chamber ached.

_But no mech can achieve perfection according to their own standards!_

Flatline winced. That was certainly true for himself. Things were better, _but not perfect._

Maybe another definition for that would be _“different.”_

Things were _different_ now.

Flatline glanced at the readout of Skywarp's reaction. Maybe _different_ was okay. Maybe it was the best he was ever gonna get.

Flatline pulled the monitors close and busied himself typing up the firsthand account of the day's experiments.

~~

“I can't... I can't do it.” Skywarp held Mirage's hand tightly but he looked away. The windows of the buildings behind him blazed with gold in the sunlight. A strong breeze whipped between them. Skywarp shifted and angled his wings so Mirage stood in their lee. The broken rock of the hotel roof crunched beneath his feet.

“But I'll be there.” Mirage touched a wing. It was cold. “I'll sit beside you the entire time-”

“I _can't.”_ Skywarp stared off into the skyline, unhappiness building in his field.

Mirage gently took Skywarp's chin and turned his face until he could look in his eyes. He stroked Skywarp's jaw. “Are you certain? Are you afraid Flatline will do something harmful to you?”

“No! Well. Yeah. Maybe.” Skywarp frowned and his whole field emanated an embarrassed sadness. “I'm not... I'm not afraid of Flatline. I don't think I can do the _thing_. It wouldn't matter who did it.” He touched his chest. “Ever since the Academy ripped me open, I haven't let _anyone_ touch my spark chamber.”

Mirage let his hand drop to Skywarp's chest. He felt the sparkbeat beneath the living metal. “Even me?”

Skywarp blinked. “You never said you _wanted_ to. Maybe you did accidentally a couple times. I dunno. I think you kinda just... ignored it if you saw it. You knew how I felt. Like how I stopped the fire jokes. We wanted to... keep each other comfortable.”

“But it's so... _important_.”

“I know. And maybe...” Skywarp heaved a big sigh. “ _Maybe_ someday I'll change my mind. And if I do, we'll come back! Promise! But... I can't do it now.” Skywarp gently pushed him back from the edge of the hotel roof. He grabbed the rusty guard rail, installed to keep grounders and non-fliers safe, and pulled up its anchor points. He tossed beams of pitted metal to the side, part of his labor loan to pay for his room.

Mirage stepped forward. “But-”

Skywarp looked at him with pleading eyes. Mirage could feel the embarrassment in his field. “I know. I _know_ it's not fair to- to chain you to me like that but- but we're gonna be together from now on anyway. Right?” He gave Mirage a hopeful smile.

“Yes. I think so.” Mirage frowned. He stepped closer. “But what if something _happens_ to me-”

“I won't let it.” Skywarp pushed him back again, away from the roof edge. 

“But what if something happens and you're not there-”

“Then I'll go back to being the same as I was for the past two million years. I survived! It sucked and was the worst thing ever but I did it!” Skywarp's forced grin was much more a grimace. “But that won't happen. I _won't let it.”_

Mirage took a calming breath. Skywarp was too stubborn and afraid to have a battery installed, even though it would mean a cessation of his pain. Maybe even indefinitely. The reason for his refusal was understandable, but still frustrating.

“I-” Mirage started.

“I'm not as brave as you,” said Skywarp. He kicked at the guard rail. “I'm fucking dumber and I'll do the big stupid shit, but when it comes to _this,_ I'm not. It's my _one_ thing. I know I won't be able to do it. Even if Flatline killswitched me I'd somehow reanimate and shove my null rays down his throat the second he touched my spark chamber.” His field burned with shame. “You went on that bed and put your whole life on the line to remember _me_ and then I showed up and almost fucking killed you. You knew all the risks and you _still_ did it. And I can't even let Flatline cut one tiny hole in my spark chamber so I can have a semi-decent life.”

Mirage felt his frustration soften slightly. Skywarp was in a hard place, but it was ultimately his choice. And if Mirage was going to support him- _them-_ if they were going to be a team going forward, than he would have to support this choice, too. Regardless of how irrational it seemed. “Alright.”

“You're not mad?”

Mirage sighed. “No I- I don't understand. But I'm listening.”

Skywarp smiled. “You used to say that. That's what... that was what you'd say for the hard things.”

Mirage smiled. 

“But who cares about me. Today's about you. And your beautiful new face.” He gave Mirage a quick kiss and returned to his labor trade.

Mirage waited patiently until had Skywarp finished and comm'd the hotel owner about his progress. Then they teleported to their room. 

Skywarp turned the shower on full blast without any prompting. He sagged against its shiny wall, inlaid with precious metals and stones. It was big enough for three fliers his size. Mirage joined him, pulling the frosted glass door shut.

“Wow,” he said, taking in the patterns in the walls. “Do you know how much _time_ it takes to make one of these?” He touched a mosaic of gold and glittering stone. “Is that _opal?_ This must have been imported from Earth.”

“No idea. But it's super fancy.” Skywarp winked at him. He stuck his arm in the torrent of water. Rust and dirt streamed off his plating. “Good temperature! Hop in.”

Mirage gave him a sly smile and stepped into the water. Skywarp threw his hands over his face just a moment too late. Mirage went invisible, filling the cavernous shower with blinding rainbows.

“Aagggh!” shouted Skywarp.

Mirage laughed.

“How did I _forget_ about that??” Skywarp blinked madly. His helm turned back and forth. “Whoa, they're _brighter_ now. How is that possible?”

“Outliers get more powerful with time?” 

“Yeah. I guess you can't get any more _invisible_. So your rainbows are more formidable.”

Mirage laughed again and returned to visibility. He pulled Skywarp under the water stream with him. “Kiss me.” 

“Heh. I'm gonna do one better than that.” Skywarp bent til they were nose-to-nose. “I'm gonna _face you.”_

Mirage blinked. “You know,” he said, letting his face clear. Skywarp's field thickened. “No one's made that joke this _entire_ time. Not even Quickmix.”

“Heh...” Skywarp hoisted him up against the shower wall. Mirage stretched against the gold and silver backdrop, his biolights slowing and field thickening. Skywarp kissed the sensitive glass in his chest. Mirage moaned. “How the fuck are you _more pretty_ every time I look at you?”

Mirage just smiled and wrapped his legs around Skywarp's middle. He pulled Skywarp into a kiss: the sensations on his glass face spiraled through him and ignited his spark. Skywarp signaled for the overhead lights to go out and their biolights intensified. The water caught their vibrant red and reddish-purple, splashing globules and streaks of light around them like stars. Mirage couldn't tell where his field ended and Skywarp's began, or whose sparkbeat pounded in his audials, or which lines were aflame and which had already glitched out to overload. He gasped and arched against precious stones and his lover and the heat of the water, lost to the waves of adoration echoing between them.

They delighted in each other until time ran out and they had to return to the body shop, still shedding water from their plating. 

~~

Flatline eyed the puddles in the middle of his shop with disdain. The two had returned smelling of soap, so he wasn't worried about the composition of the liquid. But still. He threw towels at them and crossed his arms until they had thoroughly dried the floor.

Flatline took the news of Skywarp's choice by raising an orbital arch. He reset his vocalizer. “You are aware,” he said, quirking his head at the Seeker. “That the hole could be _nearly microscopic-”_

“Yeah,” said Skywarp. He helped Mirage get on the med bed. “But I still can't.”

Flatline's finials moved in a complex pattern. He seemed at the end of his patience. “Very well,” he said calmly. “I suppose you've more than paid for the scans and research I've already done. And, if you change your mind... you can always come back.”

Skywarp nodded.

Flatline's finials twitched. 

“You got more to say?” asked Skywarp.

“Of course I do,” said Flatline. “But it would be _unprofessional_ of me to indulge.”

“Then quit the finial twitching,” said Skywarp. “It's words as much as anything else is.” He bent and kissed Mirage. “Good night, babe.”

“Good night.” Mirage heaved a happy sigh as Skywarp disappeared. 

Flatline glanced at the monitors. “Feelin' tired?”

“Quite.” Mirage folded his hands over his chest. There were streaks of black and purple paint on his body that hadn't been there before. “This face is wonderful, Flatline. I cannot tell you what a joy it is to smile and laugh and eat and speak again.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I hope we'll be back at some point to give Skywarp a battery.”

“Pff. Yeah. Me too.”

“He just needs time.”

“Hrmm.”

Mirage settled in, the med bed inviting as always. The monitors beeped quietly. Flatline worked. Mirage closed his eyes. The body shop was quiet and warm.

“Thank you again, Flatline,” said Mirage sleepily.

Flatline glanced up. “You're welcome.”

“I hope someday you find what you're looking for, too,” said Mirage.

“Well, actually-”

But Mirage was already asleep.


	25. See You Later

Skywarp bypassed the front door and warped directly into the body shop. To his disappointment, Flatline only jumped a little. The medic glared at him. Skywarp smirked.

His smile slowly dipped downwards as he took in the room. Mirage was not there. The curtain to the patient alcove with its creepy bed was open. Skywarp warped to the bed and checked behind it just in case. The annoying monitors were floating everywhere, but there was no Mirage.

A tiny twinge of fear arched through his chest, like a match had been struck across his spark chamber and the resulting small flame snuffed out against it. “Where's Mirage?”

“Hello to you, too,” said Flatline.

“Well?” Skywarp swept the room again. There were two doors he hadn't seen the other side of, yet. One looked similar to the front door, and the other was a behemoth black door with a red, palm-shaped bioscanner. Getting through would be trivial-

Flatline blocked his view of the giant black door. “He's at Spreem's, saying goodbye.”

Skywarp nodded, energy gathered in his chest and-

“For fuck's sake, let him have a minute,” said Flatline. He shook his head at Skywarp. “Mirage feels Spreem has done him a great service. Let him say goodbye in peace.”

Skywarp shifted. “He doesn't need to say goodbye. We're not leaving _forever-”_

Flatline rolled his eyes. “I know that. You know that. Mirage knows that. But he still wants to have a moment with his new acquaintances and check out the shop. It's Spreem's grand opening today. Not that _you'd_ care. So sit your aft down for five fucking minutes and let him do that.”

Skywarp scowled. He turned away from Flatline, half a mind to warp next door anyway and-

“Here's a box for your stuff from yesterday. If you don't wanna take it with you, I'm happy to have it.”

Skywarp glanced over. Oh, right. All that food he'd bought for Mirage's little feast. They'd left it here. He huffed and shoved the bags into the box.

“You know, you being so possessive and shitty is going to have a negative effect on your burgeoning relationship,” said Flatline.

“Who the hell asked you?” Skywarp eyed one of the bags. It was a Eukarian dish he hadn't liked at all. Disgusting. Some kind of deep fried hairy creature full of legs. He set it aside. Flatline could have it.

“The powers of observation.” Flatline sat and swung his feet up on the consoles. 

“Why do you _care?”_

“Because Mirage has done _me_ a great service. I feel I'd be remiss not to at least mention it,” said Flatline.

“I'm not _possessive,_ ” said Skywarp. “I'm getting over coming home one night and he wasn't there and never fuckin' came back again. I'm trying not to think about him _shooting me_ cuz some fuckin' Autobot glitch blitzed his brain and _ordered him to._ I'm trying not to think about the billions of days I can't fully remember cuz my fuckin' addicted fuckin' _lines_ were on fire.” Skywarp pointed in the direction of Spreem's place. “I just wanna know where he is! Makes _sense,_ don't you think?” 

_I'm fuckin scared he'll disappear again, you fucking asshole!_

Skywarp managed to keep that last part to himself.

Flatline's finials swung. “You're an angry, defensive mech, Skywarp,” he said. Skywarp bristled. “See? Just calm down.”

“I am calm!”

“If you treat everyone in the world like shit, sooner or later you'll do it to him, too.”

“I would never!” Skywarp shoved the meal bags around in the box. “I'd rip my own spark out before-”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” said Flatline. “Remember when he first came to you? He was broken, right?”

“You mean after the cult? Yeah.”

“Well, he's broken again. Okay? Get it through your fucking warp-addled little mind. He needs stability. He needs friends. He needs to talk to a professional and figure out new meds. You might see him go through mood swings you don't understand. He's still gonna have nightmares. It's _mnemosurgery,_ Skywarp. You can't punch and shoot this problem away. And frankly, if he's gonna let you use him because you're too goddamn scared to get a medical device installed, the least you could do in return is help him figure his shit out.”

“Of course I will!”

Flatline stared him dead in the eye. “His shit. Is _complicated._ You need to be patient. And you need to listen. And you need to shut. The fuck. Up.”

Skywarp _glared_ at him, fists clenching. 

Flatline scoffed. “You think I'm saying this just to piss you off. I'm not. I saw your pain, yesterday. I _felt_ it fill the whole room when Mirage thought you didn't truly love him. You have two kinds: the physical addiction and the emotional anguish. I don't fucking envy you one bit. But I can tell you'd go to the Pit and back for him. I _know_ you would do anything for him.”

Skywarp blinked. His fists unclenched slightly.

“But I know you're probably gonna push him away unintentionally. And frankly, I don't think either of you can afford that. I think your weird bond has fucked you two up so badly, you're literally more stable when you're together. You belong together.” 

Skywarp's eyes flashed and he reset them.

Flatline brushed his chest. “Despite what you know about my past, I'm not sparkless. I see what works and what doesn't. Something must've worked for you before the war. Find that again. Tap into it.”

Skywarp took a deep breath. Then he let it out. After a long moment, he said, “yeah, Mirage said that, too. Basically.”

“Then you've considered it?”

“Mrr.” Skywarp glanced at the mountain of severed feet and wondered if that was the last bit of fun he'd ever have. “I'll figure it out.”

Flatline sighed. “Okay. I tried.”

“You just said I'll never give up on him,” said Skywarp. “You just said we belong together.”

“Yeah?”

“You're the first person in four million years to say that.” Skywarp pulled a crystal twist from one of the bags and sat down. “No one else who knew about us ever said that during the war, even though _I_ knew it was true. No one believed me. No one thought I was right.” He shoved the twist in his mouth. He ruffled his wings. Spitting crumbs, he said softly, “feels good to hear.”

~~

Mirage peered into the long display case. There were two others- filled with mouth-watering savory dishes and hot meals- but this was the case that caught his eye. There were shelves and shelves of desserts on wavy platters that fit around each other in pleasing curves. The treats were arranged roughly in rainbow order, shimmering and sparkling under the lights. Some he recognized: the tell-tale dual icing of blasttrap pastries, pillowy magic treats, and various gem or creature-shaped sweets he'd enjoyed before the war. There were also thick slabs of gelatinous energon rolled in multicolored sprinkles, cups of crushed crystals crowned with little dots of piped icing, flame-shaped pastries, and dozens more Camien treats he was unfamiliar with. Little containers of spices and metallic decorations for sale were lined up neatly on top of the display case. Mirage pressed his face against the display window, admiring the vast assortment. Each dessert was lovingly decorated and arranged on its plate. “These look marvelous!”

“Thanks!” said Flashflux. She and Solarray stood behind the case prepping ingredients. They wore yellow aprons with the restaurant's new logo and branding. Flashflux grinned and held out a platter with a random assortment of colorful desserts. “Sample?”

“Happily,” said Mirage, selecting a shimmering red flame-shaped sweet. He chewed, looking around the refurnished restaurant. The walls were covered in colorful mosaics depicting stories from Cybertron and Caminus. The bronze and copper swirled tables and chairs Skywarp had delivered were set out in rows. The floor was shiny and notably not sticky. Sunlight streamed in through the yellow-tinted windows, lending the sweet-smelling atmosphere an extra bit of warmth. “Interesting flavor! I've never tasted anything like this before.”

“Old Camien recipe,” said Solarray. Her blue panels swayed gently. “It is fun to translate the old recipes. Do you know how challenging it is to convert the units of measure between three measuring systems? Old Camien to Modern Camien to Cybertronian.”

“One of the old Camien units of measurement for weight was 'Cityspeaker's eyes'!” said Flashflux. Her wings rose and fell as she laughed. “Hah! _Which_ Cityspeaker? How _big_ were their eyes?” She grimaced. “Why _eyes?_ at all?”

Mirage smiled. “I imagine there is a story behind it. Will you be staying here? Working for Spreem?”

“Yes,” said Solarray. “We like Spreem. He's very kind. He listens to our ideas. In fact, he quite enjoys the creation process, but not so much the administration. I've been... making decisions on that end.” 

Mirage caught her meaning. He glanced around the restaurant again. He was quite certain Spreem hadn't had anything to do with the way the colors harmonized or the shop's name and contact information was subtly found on everything from the mosaics to the napkins. “I'm sure you're both happier with that arrangement.” 

Solarray nodded. She set a box on the counter in front of Mirage. 

“Once we save up enough money, we're gonna move! I wanna be closer to this area,” said Flashflux. She tucked her wings in and stuck her head through the door to the kitchen. “Hey, Spreem! Someone's here for you!”

“What's this?” asked Mirage, pulling the box closer. It was a cheerful light yellow with flame motifs and had a magnetic clasp shaped like a torch.

“One of the recipes you gave Spreem,” said Solarray. “He wanted you to have a box of them.”

Mirage lifted the lid. Inside were blue treats nestled in paper wrappers. “Oh! Are these crimped seablossoms?”

“They are!” Spreem eased through the door, ducking under Flashflux's wings. There were smears of energon all over him, clashing with his color scheme. He peered up from behind the display case. “Is that you, Mirage?”

“Yes.” 

“I can hear you with my audials instead of the inside of my head!”

“Yes!” 

“He fixed you up!” Spreem looked at Mirage approvingly. Or, at least, that's how Mirage interpreted the happy bubbles. “He's a great guy, Flatline!”

Mirage stepped to the side before Spreem could give him a friendly, extremely strong punch to the arm. “That he is.”

“Are you here for labor trade?”

“No, I'm all done with that now.” Mirage put a hand on the stout bot's shoulder. “Thank you _so much_ for your help, Spreem.”

“You're welcome!” Spreem scratched his visor. “What did I do?”

“More than you'll ever know.”

His visor bubbled. “Great!” Spreem grabbed another box off the counter. “I know about this, though. These are for you!”

Mirage blinked and took the box. _“More?_ I can pay for these-”

“No no!” Spreem grabbed Mirage's hand and shook it vigorously. “They're a thanks for the recipes!”

“Oh. You're welcome!” Mirage rubbed his hand. “I'm so pleased they've inspired such beautiful work. I look forward to tasting these.” Mirage stacked the boxes and took a menu from the pile. He smiled at the Camiens and Spreem. “I wish you the greatest luck in your business ventures. Don't forget to contact Blurr when you're ready to expand.”

Flashflux nodded. “I already went to his bar to scout him out. Fast talker.”

Solarray peered at him. “Are you going away?”

“I have some important things to do around Iacon. But I'll be sure to stop by when I come to this sector. I will need to meet with Flatline periodically.”

“We'll look forward to seeing you again,” said Solarray. Flashflux nodded.

“Yeah!” said Spreem. “Come back anytime!”

Mirage smiled.

~~

“Congratulations,” said Flatline. He pulled Mirage up from the med bed. “Everything's working perfectly. No complaints from me. Come back in about two weeks. We'll do some more scans. I'll send today's results to First Aid.”

“Alright.” Mirage touched his cheeks. “It's still such a novelty to smile. Thank you for all your help, Flatline.”

“You're welcome.” Flatline pulled a few hard light data sheets from subspace. “Here are the files you'll need when you approach the Autobot councils.” Mirage nodded and took them. “There's all the med bed data, our talks and interviews. There's some first hand accounts Skywarp mumbled into the mics. But him doing his part live will be better, anyway. Have him get the gifts you exchanged way back then dated and that information authenticated. It'll bolster his claim of being your...” Flatline squinted. “Not-conjunx. Whatever you are. Trans-dimensionally bonded mate.” 

“Such a romantic term,” said Mirage.

“Pff. Well, I don't know. I don't name these things. Speaking of which...” he regarded Mirage. “I dunno what you two did to each other but I'd love to make a case study about it.”

Mirage gave him an unamused look.

“Maybe after you're done with the Autobot councils?” His finials moved in hopeful little wiggles.

“Hrmm. Maybe. I don't think Skywarp would like that.”

“He doesn't like anything.”

Mirage smiled. 

“Yeah, yeah. Except you. He said something interesting earlier, while you were at Spreem's.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I'm not really sure how to parse it. I think... part of his problem is that he's hidden his pain. I mean, not the killing people part of it. That was the outward expression. But he said no one believed him about you two. He wasn't ever able to talk about or share the _reason_ for his pain.”

“Oh.” Mirage thought back to the therapeutic discussions he had had with First Aid and Flatline. Skywarp would never have had anyone to confide in, as far as he knew. “I see. I shall... make sure to address that.” He shifted. “You know, one thing that bothers me about how I operated before the war is that I kept our relationship hidden. I did what I thought was right at the time. But looking back, I think that was hurtful for him. I would like to address that as well.”

“I think that's a good idea.” Flatline pulled a light monitor over. “I'll be sending an abridged version of the file I gave you to First Aid so he can peruse it. Feel free to fill him in on the blanks.”

“Thank you for putting it all together for me.” 

“You're welcome. And I haven't found a mnemospecialist/therapist yet, but when I do, I will contact you.” 

Mirage nodded. 

“And, of course, don't hesitate to reach out at the appropriate time for any court-related issues. I've given medical testimony before.” Flatline wiggled his finials. “The Autobot courts _love_ me.”

Mirage regarded him. _“Really.”_

“Nope. I expect me being the one to discover the shadowplay will really piss them off. So...” Flatline pulled a small card from subspace. “This is... a secure way to reach me. If you find that you need to.” 

Mirage took the slim card. It was plain, dark gray. No identifying features or numbers printed on it. He recognized the old tech from his war work. “Thank you.” He tucked the card into his most secure subspace compartment and handed Flatline a card of his own.

Flatline's finials went up in surprise. He took the card and flipped it back and forth. Like his, it was unmarked. But instead of the usual dark gray, the card was pure white, shimmering with a holographic coating. “Thank you,” he said. “Figures. Even when you use dark tech, it's sparkly.”

Mirage grinned. 

“Before you go, Mirage, I want to show you something.”

“What?”

“Don't take this the wrong way,” said Flatline. With a click, his chest plates unlatched and separated. “I mean this in a totally platonic way.”

Mirage's eyes widened as Flatline's chest opened. “I-” He covered his eyes. “What are you doing?!”

“It's fine, it's fine. My spark chamber is closed. C'mon. Look.”

Mirage peeked between his fingers. Flatline's chest was open, revealing a black-painted interior and a scarcely visible, black-painted spark chamber. Mirage lowered his hand. “That's really something to spring on a mech! Such a private thing!”

“I know, I know. But look!” Flatline pointed to his spark chamber. _“No holes!”_

“...Oh!” The fact that the spark chamber _should've_ leaked light had been totally lost on Mirage. “That's wonderful, Flatline! You found the appropriate metal? Was it in the big pile Skywarp got?”

Flatline's finials swung up. “Nope. These are special patches. For now.” A few random spots glowed on his spark chamber and as they expanded, Mirage realized that they had definite shapes- shapes which would form the Decepticon badge when arranged properly. They lightened and lightened until brilliant spark light poured out. “A tool to get me through until I find what I need.”

“Is that... _glass?_ Like my face?”

“Yup. These are from Quickmix's first batch of polarized glass. I had him test it on me. Didn't want you walking around with an unknown right on your face. Didn't want it breaking down or causing problems or anything. They were agonizing to install but they work.”

“But when would you have been able to...” Mirage thought of the only time he had seen Flatline on the med bed. “That time you were so hurt, when Skywarp and I got back! When you were bleeding!”

“Yeah.”

“You said it was a Camien!” Mirage replayed the scene in his mind. _“You punched Quickmix!”_

“Heh... _yeah._ I didn't mean to. Mostly. The patches _did_ hurt a lot to install. I couldn't anesthetize myself, since I was doing half the surgery.” The badge-shaped patches of light started to fade. “But it was worth it. I feel better than I ever have. The glass feels... neutral, in a way. It didn't come from anyone. The idea of it being there, yet not coming from the Autobots who made me, feels okay.”

Mirage watched the spark light dim until the glass windows were black again. “That's _amazing_. Thank you for sharing that with me! And congratulations, as well!” Mirage took one of Flatline's hands and squeezed it. “I'm _so glad_ that you helping me ended up helping you, too!” 

Flatline flicked his finials up and closed his chest plating. “Me, you, Spreem, Quickmix. It was a good deal for _all_ of us.” 

Mirage glanced at the curtain, beyond which Skywarp was waiting for him. He smiled. “I feel like I have what I need now to move forward.” 

“Good.” Flatline pulled the curtain aside.

Mirage hesitated. He gave the med bed a quick pat and glanced at the monitors. Two of them tilted towards him. He squinted at them, then hurried to follow Flatline out. Skywarp stood, arms crossed by the consoles, waiting. A huge box filled with the leftover takeout bags from yesterday waited beside him. The pale, calming colors of Spreem's boxes stood out against the typical red, blue, and white branding of Iacon's restaurants.

“Well, that's everything, I think. Bye for now, Mirage,” said Flatline. He offered his hand and Mirage shook it. “It's been a hell of a ride.”

“It _has,”_ said Mirage. He reflected on the past few weeks. “I absolutely, positively could _never_ have imagined we would both be here now. Thank you for your good care.”

“You're welcome. I'll miss working on a project this complex. It'll probably be a long time til I get another one like it.” Flatline's finials danced cheerily. “See you in a couple weeks.” He sat at a console and started typing. “Take care of that face.”

“I shall.”

“Don't let anyone touch it.”

Skywarp reset his vocalizer.

Mirage laughed and slipped his arm around Skywarp's waist. “I will strengthen my avoidance subroutines.”

“Good. You going straight to the courts?” 

Mirage smiled. “No. The past few weeks have been _intense._ ” He leaned against Skywarp. “I want us to have some time to relax together.”

“Yeah. _Relax.”_

Mirage nudged him. “I want to remember more before we approach mechs of interest. I need to plan.”

_“I_ want to go somewhere _comfortable,”_ said Skywarp. He kissed Mirage's forehead crest. Then his nose. “And private. I don't think I can let go of you for a thousand years.” He picked up the box and squeezed Mirage to him. Energy filled the short space between them. “See ya later, Flatline.”

“See ya.”

Mirage wrapped his arms around Skywarp's neck. For a moment he was back in the garden- the diamond stars swaying around them, the air thick and swirling with their excitement, the breathless moment before a new beginning for them. Skywarp's eyes were bright and his field radiated eager happiness. Mirage smiled. “Take me away,” he said softly. Skywarp bent and touched their lips together.

They disappeared in a flash of light.

**The End... _for now_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaannnnnd that's all for now! Two short epilogues are next! I know some of you expressed interest in seeing Mirage's journey to discover who among the Autobots did this to him. I can honestly tell you this story was never meant to answer that question XD It started as a simple medical fic that was supposed to center around the biology of Mirage getting his face back, but it branched out to something sprawling and huge. I am proud to have written this story and I learned a lot, but my brain needs a break. This fic is almost 150k words long and has taken a year to write- I can imagine the Justice Quest taking almost as long. And so, I'd rather this fic stood on its own as Mirage, Flatline, and Skywarp's journeys- I hope you enjoyed their twisting fates and resolutions. I really love these characters and I hope that showed, and I hope you (maybe) love them a little bit, too, and will enjoy them in other fics/media. I'm getting prepared for the sequel and when it's ready you'll all know :) Thank you so much for joining me on this long journey. If you have any feedback or comments I'd love to hear them! <3


	26. Epilogue 1: Tenacity

“I'll miss working on a project this complex,” said Flatline. “It'll probably be a long time til I get another one like it.”

Flatline looked away as the two did that annoying romantic crap they loved to parade around his shop. They said their goodbyes and vanished in a burst of white and purple light. Flatline shook his head and unfolded the promotional data sheet that had been stuck to his door that morning: 

**~Spreem's Vintage Cybertronian/Camien Fusion Delicatessen~  
 _Grand Opening!_   
Snacks, Cubes, Candies and More!**

He studied the menu. 

.:Hey Spreem:. he comm'd.

.:Hey Flatline! What's up?:.

.:Gimmie an order of uhhhhhh... three number 2s and a number 7. And send Quickmix a number 6. I heard some explosions last night. Someone should check and make sure he's alive:.

.:Sure! It'll be about twenty minutes. I'll send Flashflux over when it's ready:.

.:Thanks:.

Flatline organized his patient files. The next prospective client should be arriving any moment now. Her communication had been nebulous, as his clients were wont to be. 

The monitor chimed. Flatline looked up. “Ah,” he said to the winged figure entering the shop. “You must be Tenacity. Right on time. Oh. I wasn't expecting someone of your... _stature.”_

A highly decorated Autobot flier approached, her gleaming white armor covered in military insignia and medals. She shook ice from her wings, revealing the rank **L.t. GEN** painted in a bold red. She had a commanding presence, confident, no-nonsense. 

“Just landed?”

“Yes. From intermediate circular orbit,” she said, voice slightly muffled by her flight helmet. She had a familiar accent. “You've come highly recommended to me.” 

Flatline chuckled. “Yes, yes, I often am.”

“I have heard whispers of a treatment that you offer,” she said, pulling off her helmet. She had blue optics and a pretty face; symmetrical, with perfect seams running from her eyes to her chin. A gold sharpshooter mod was installed on her forehead, extending gracefully down over one eye. “I don't have any liquid assets at the moment, but I would be _most grateful_ to employ your services and perhaps pay another way. I do have access to _many_ resources.” She flicked her wings meaningfully.

“Of course. We can work out the details,” said Flatline. He took in her frame: powerful, up to date, newly painted. Not a single dent or scratch. At a glance, he could not guess why she had come to him. “What's bothering you?”

She slipped her thumb beneath her chin. With a hydraulic hiss, she popped her face off. Flatline's finials shot up.

Beneath the perfect face was another- half dented rusting metal, half broken glass. There were spidering lines in the glass half, circling her eye. Jagged cracks radiated down her cheek. Light, blue as her eyes, shone through.

“Well, well, well,” said Flatline, finials swiveling forward in a grin. “I think I know exactly who you are. I think I have exactly what you need!”

The broken face smiled.

**~*~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this epilogue gave me a lot of hope while I was constructing the more intense and depressing chapters of this story. At that time, I wasn't sure how the fic was going to end. Bringing Sheen in again and having Flatline there to help her made it feel like there was a hopeful and positive resolution to work toward. And also like Flatline continues with his work as usual. No one's story is really over, we're just done with our short peek into it. :) 
> 
> On a personal note, this story has served as an outlet for me. The themes of love and distance and forgetting and pain are rooted in my own experiences. Poor, dear OTP! How I tortured you! ;n; But I gave you something beautiful, too, I hope.
> 
> Again, thank you so much for joining me on this journey. If at some point in the future you consider this fic good enough for a reread, the early clues you'll find here and there are little heart emojis for you all. <3
> 
> Please let me know what you think of the story- feedback/comments are greatly appreciated and will fuel me onward! <3


	27. Epilogue 2: Jazz

**SOME TIME LATER...**

Jazz sat in Prowl's second office, pushing data pads around. The mech's _first_ office was a huge room with windows from floor to ceiling, looking out over Iacon, meticulously neat and clean.

But this second office, where the good stuff was, was a glorified closet with a desk and a bare bulb overhead. Prowl was away, but he'd given Jazz limited access to some of his files. He needed info that was stored locally. Jazz was getting it for him. 

Idly, he wondered if Prowl had a _third_ office, and if it were a capped hole dug beneath the basement floor.

There was an array of small lights embedded into the desk, tilted upwards so they could only be seen by the person sitting at it. One of those lights blinked. Two seconds later, the door slid open. Whoever it was, they had Prowl's keycodes.

Jazz's audial horns perked up as he recognized the mech. “Hey, Mirage! It's been a long time!” 

“Hello, Jazz.”

Mirage strode into the small room and stood before the desk, fluid and graceful as always. Jazz evaluated Mirage's body language at a glance, an ingrained habit from the war. Mirage's field was pulled in tight, but Jazz knew him long enough that the other little signs- fingertips lightly placed on his hips, one leg slightly behind the other in a micro aggressive stance, shoulder plates hanging _just_ so- meant the mech was stewing in anger. 

His red Autobot badge was streaked, like he'd clawed at it.

Jazz wasn't sure what to make of it. He smoothed over the confusion in his field and kept his tone friendly and upbeat. “What's up? I didn't see the Lost Light on today's ship roster. Is it here? Are you visiting home?”

Black wings appeared behind Mirage, framing him like an avatar of Mortilus. Jazz reset his visor. It was obviously one of Mirage's hard light holo displays, but why was he projecting it-

The bare bulb overhead went dark. A shadow fell over them both. Jazz looked up, past Mirage.

Skywarp glared down at him, his eyes flashing in the shadow he had cast.

“Oh. _Shit._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Til next time! >D


End file.
